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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/29515-0.txt b/29515-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..f3af9ab --- /dev/null +++ b/29515-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,2507 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Battle of the Bays, by Owen Seaman + +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: The Battle of the Bays + +Author: Owen Seaman + +Release Date: July 27, 2009 [EBook #29515] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE BATTLE OF THE BAYS *** + + + + +Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Katherine Ward, and the +Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net + + + + + + + + + +THE BATTLE OF THE BAYS + + + _By the same Author_ + + IN CAP AND BELLS + HORACE AT CAMBRIDGE + TILLERS OF THE SAND + + + BY OWEN SEAMAN + + + JOHN LANE + THE BODLEY HEAD + LONDON & NEW YORK + 1902 + + + _Copyright in the United States._ + _All Rights Reserved._ + + + _Eighth Edition_ + + + + +CONTENTS. + + PAGE + I. The Battle of the Bays 1 + 1. A Song of Renunciation 1 + 2. For the Albums of Crowned Heads Only 5 + 3. Marsyas in Hades 11 + 4. The Rhyme of the Kipperling 15 + 5. A Ballad of a Bun 22 + 6. A Vigo-Street Eclogue 27 + 7. An Ode to Spring in the Metropolis 37 + 8. Yet 42 + 9. Elegi Musarum 44 + II. To Mr. William Watson 49 + III. England's Alfred Abroad 53 + IV. Lilith Libifera 57 + V. Ars Postera 58 + VI. A New Blue Book 61 + VII. To a Boy-Poet of the Decadence 64 + VIII. To Julia in Shooting Togs 66 + IX. The Links of Love 69 + X. Swords and Ploughshares 71 + XI. To the Lord of Potsdam 76 + XII. From the Lord of Potsdam 80 + XIII. 'The Spacious Times' 83 + + + + +I. THE BATTLE OF THE BAYS. + +1. + +A SONG OF RENUNCIATION. + +(AFTER A. C. S.) + + + In the days of my season of salad, + When the down was as dew on my cheek, + And for French I was bred on the ballad, + For Greek on the writers of Greek,-- + Then I sang of the rose that is ruddy, + Of 'pleasure that winces and stings,' + Of white women and wine that is bloody, + And similar things. + + Of Delight that is dear as Desi-er, + And Desire that is dear as Delight; + Of the fangs of the flame that is fi-er, + Of the bruises of kisses that bite; + Of embraces that clasp and that sever, + Of blushes that flutter and flee + Round the limbs of Dolores, whoever + Dolores may be. + + I sang of false faith that is fleeting + As froth of the swallowing seas, + Time's curse that is fatal as Keating + Is fatal to amorous fleas; + Of the wanness of woe that is whelp of + The lust that is blind as a bat-- + By the help of my Muse and the help of + The relative THAT. + + Panatheist, bruiser and breaker + Of kings and the creatures of kings, + I shouted on Freedom to shake her + Feet loose of the fetter that clings; + Far rolling my ravenous red eye, + And lifting a mutinous lid, + To all monarchs and matrons I said I + Would shock them--and did. + + Thee I sang, and thy loves, O Thalassian, + O 'noble and nude and antique!' + Unashamed in the 'fearless old fashion' + Ere washing was done by the week; + When the 'roses and rapture' that girt you + Were visions of delicate vice, + And the 'lilies and languors of virtue' + Not nearly so nice. + + O delights of the time of my teething, + Félise, Fragoletta, Yolande! + Foam-yeast of a youth in its seething + On blasted and blithering sand! + Snake-crowned on your tresses and belted + With blossoms that coil and decay, + Ye are gone; ye are lost; ye are melted + Like ices in May. + + Hushed now is the bibulous bubble + Of 'lithe and lascivious' throats; + Long stript and extinct is the stubble + Of hoary and harvested oats; + From the sweets that are sour as the sorrel's + The bees have abortively swarmed; + And Algernon's earlier morals + Are fairly reformed. + + I have written a loyal Armada, + And posed in a Jubilee pose; + I have babbled of babies and played a + New tune on the turn of their toes; + Washed white from the stain of Astarte, + My books any virgin may buy; + And I hear I am praised by a party + Called Something Mackay! + + When erased are the records, and rotten + The meshes of memory's net; + When the grace that forgives has forgotten + The things that are good to forget; + When the trill of my juvenile trumpet + Is dead and its echoes are dead; + Then the laurel shall lie on the crumpet + And crown of my head! + + +2. + +FOR THE ALBUMS OF CROWNED HEADS ONLY. + +(AFTER SIR E. A.) + +1. _From the third Sa'dine Box of the eighth Gazelle of Ghazal._ + + Yá Yá! Best-Belovéd! I look to thy dimples and drink; + Tiddlihî! to thy cheek-pits and chin-pit, my Tulip, my Pink! + + See my heart rises up like a bubble, and bursts in my throat, + And the dimples that draw it are Three, like the Men in a Boat. + + Thrice Three are the Muses, and I that begat her should guess + That the Tenth is the TÄ’LE-EPHÄ’MERA, Pride of the PRESS! + + And the Graces were triplets till lately the fruitful Dîtî + Propagated a Fourth, and the infant was W. G. + + From my post of Propinquity prone on my languorous knees + My tears slither down like the Gum of Arabia's trees. + + "Am I drunk?" Heart-Entangler! By Hafiz, the Blender of Squish! + 'Tis the camel that sits on the prayer-mat is drunk as a fish. + + As I hope for the future Uprising, deny it who can, + Two years I have worn the Blue Ribbon, come next Ramadan! + + Chest-Preserver! thou knowest thine eyes, they alone, are my drink, + Blue-black as the sloes of the Garden or Stephens his Ink. + + On thy sugar-sweet liplets, my Cypress! I browse like a bee, + And am aching, as after a surfeit of Melon, for thee! + + Low laid at thy feet--little feet--in the dust like a worm, + Round the train of thy skirt, O my Peacock, I fitfully squirm. + + By Allah! I swoon, I rotate, I am sickly of hue! + And the Infidel swore that Jam-Jam was a Temperance brew! + + Heart-Punisher! Surely I think it was jalapped with gin! + Aha! Paradise! I am passing! So be it! Amin! + + +2. _From a little thing by the Princess Onono GoawaÄ«._ + + The bulbul hummeth like a book + Upon the pooh-pooh tree, + And now and then he takes a look + At you and me, + At me and you. + Kuchi! + Kuchoo! + + +3. _From the Sanskrit of Matabîlîwaijo._ + + Wind! a word with thee! thou goest where my Well-Preservéd lies + On her bed of bonny briers keeping off the wicked flies. + + Thou shalt know her by th' aroma of her bosom, which is musk, + And her ivories that glisten like an elephantine tusk. + + Seek her coral-guarded tympanum and whisper "Poppinjai!" + And (referring to her lover) kindly add "A-lal-lal-lai!" + + Breeze! thou knowest my condition; state it broadly, if you please, + In a smattering of Indo-Turco-Perso-Japanese. + + Say my youth is flitting freely, and before the season goes + From the garden of my Tûtsi I am fain to pluck a rose. + + Tell her I'm a wanton Sufà (what a Sufà really is + She may know, perhaps--I count it one of Allah's mysteries). + + Fly, O blessed Breeze, and hither bring me back the net result; + Fly as flies the rude mosquito from Abdullah's catapult. + + Fly as flies the rusty rickshaw of the Kurumayasan, + When he scents a Hippopotam down the groves of Gulistan. + + Fly and cull, O cull, a section of my Pipkin's purple tress; + Thou shalt find me drinking deeply with the Lords that rule the + Mess; + + Quaffing mead and mighty sodas with the JohnÃs, Lords of War, + Talking 'jungle in the gun-room,' underneath the deodar. + + Hoo Tawâ! I go to join them; he that cometh late is curst, + For the Lords of War (by Akbar) have a most amazing thirst! + + +3. + +MARSYAS IN HADES. + +(AFTER SIR L. M.) + + Next I saw + A pensive gentleman of middle age, + That leaned against a Druid oak, his pipe + Pendent beneath his chin--a double one-- + (Meaning the pipe); reluctant was his breath, + For he had mingled in the Morris dance + And rested blown; but damsels in their teens, + All decorous and decorously clad, + Their very ankles hardly visible, + Recalled his motions; while, for chaperon, + Good Mrs. Grundy up against the wall + Beamed approbation. + + On his face I read + Signs of high sadness such as poets wear, + Being divinely discontented with + The praise of _jeunes filles_. Even as I looked, + He touched the portion of his pipe reserved + For minor poetry of solemn tone, + Checking the humorous stops intended for + Electioneering posters and the like; + And therewithal he made the following + Addition to his _Songs Unsung_, or else + His _Unremarked Remarks_: + + "Dear Sir," he said, + "Excuse my saying 'Sir' like that; it is + Our way in Hades here among the damned; + For you must know that some of us are damned + Not only by faint praise but full applause + Of simple critics. Take my case. In me + Behold the good knight Marsyas, M.A., + Three times a candidate for Parliament, + And twice retired; a Justice of the Peace; + Master of Arts (I said), and better known + In literary spheres as Master of + The Mediocre-Obvious; and read + By boarding-misses in their myriads. + These dote upon me. Sweetly have I sung + The commonplaces of philosophy + In common parlance. + + You have read perhaps + The Cymric Triads? Poetry, they say, + Excels alone by sheer simplicity + Of language, subject, and invention. Sir! + The excellence of mine lay that way too. + But fate is partial. Heaven's fulgour moulds + 'To happiness some, some to unhappiness!' + (Look you, the harp was Welsh that figured forth + That excellent last line.) I ask you, Sir, + What would you? Ill content with mortal praise, + And haply somewhat overbold, I sought + To be as gods be; sought, in fact, to filch + Apollo's bays! + + Ah me! Dear me! I fain + Would use a stronger phrase, but hardly dare, + Being, whatever else, respectable. + I say I tired of vulgar homage, gift + Of ignorance. 'High failure overleaps + The bounds of low successes' (there, again, + The harp that twanged was Welsh, but with an echo + Of Browning). Godlike it must be, I thought, + To climb the giddy brink; to pen, for instance, + An Ode to the Imperial Institute, + And fall, if bound to, from a decent height. + + I did and missed the laurel; still I go + On writing; what you hear just now is blank, + Distinctly blank, and might be measured by + The kilomètre; yet I rhyme as well + A little; but it takes a lot of time, + And checks the lapse of my pellucid stream + Not all conveniently." + + Thereat he paused, + And wrung the moisture from his pipe; but I, + As one that was intolerably bored, + Took even this occasion to be gone; + And, going, marked him how he took his stile, + Polished the waxen tablets, and began + To make a Royal Pæan _by request_, + Or so he said. + + +4. + +THE RHYME OF THE KIPPERLING. + +(AFTER R. K.) + +[N.B.--No nautical terms or statements guaranteed.] + + Away by the haunts of the Yang-tse-boo, + Where the Yuletide runs cold gin, + And the rollicking sign of the _Lord Knows Who_ + Sees mariners drink like sin; + Where the _Jolly Roger_ tips his quart + To the luck of the _Union Jack_; + And some are screwed on the foreign port, + And some on the starboard tack;-- + Ever they tell the tale anew + Of the chase for the kipperling swag; + How the smack _Tommy This_ and the smack _Tommy That_ + They broached each other like a whiskey-vat, + And the _Fuzzy-Wuz_ took the bag. + + Now this is the law of the herring fleet that harries the northern + main, + Tattooed in scars on the chests of the tars with a brand like the + brand of Cain: + That none may woo the sea-born shrew save such as pay their way + With a kipperling netted at noon of night and cured ere the crack of + day. + + It was the woman Sal o' the Dune, and the men were three to one, + Bill the Skipper and Ned the Nipper and Sam that was Son of a Gun; + Bill was a Skipper and Ned was a Nipper and Sam was the Son of a + Gun, + And the woman was Sal o' the Dune, as I said, and the men were three + to one. + + There was never a light in the sky that night of the soft midsummer + gales, + But the great man-bloaters snorted low, and the young 'uns sang like + whales; + And out laughed Sal (like a dog-toothed wheel was the laugh that Sal + laughed she): + "Now who's for a bride on the shady side of up'ards of forty-three?" + + And Neddy he swore by butt and bend, and Billy by bend and bitt, + And nautical names that no man frames but your amateur nautical + wit; + And Sam said, "Shiver my topping-lifts and scuttle my foc's'le + yarn, + And may I be curst, if I'm not in first with a kipperling slued + astarn!" + + Now the smack _Tommy This_ and the smack _Tommy That_ and the + _Fuzzy-Wuz_ smack, all three, + Their captains bold, they were Bill and Ned and Sam respectivelee. + + And it's writ in the rules that the primary schools of kippers + should get off cheap + For a two mile reach off Foulness beach when the July tide's at + neap; + And the lawless lubbers that lust for loot and filch the yearling + stock + They get smart raps from the coastguard chaps with their blunderbuss + fixed half-cock. + + Now Bill the Skipper and Ned the Nipper could tell green cheese from + blue, + And Bill knew a trick and Ned knew a trick, but Sam knew a trick + worth two. + + So Bill he sneaks a corporal's breeks and a belt of pipeclayed + hide, + And splices them on to the jibsail-boom like a troopship on the + tide. + + And likewise Ned to his masthead he runs a rag of the Queen's, + With a rusty sword and a moke on board to bray like the Horse + Marines. + + But Sam sniffs gore and he keeps off-shore and he waits for things + to stir, + Then he tracks for the deep with a long fog-horn rigged up like a + bowchasér. + + Now scarce had Ned dropped line and lead when he spots the + pipeclayed hide, + And the corporal's breeks on the jibsail-boom like a troopship on + the tide; + And Bill likewise, when he ups and spies the slip of a rag of the + Queen's, + And the rusty sword, and he sniffs aboard the moke of the Horse + Marines. + + So they each luffed sail, and they each turned tail, and they + whipped their wheels like mad, + When the one he said "By the Lord, it's Ned!" and the other, "It's + Bill, by Gad!" + + Then about and about, and nozzle to snout, they rammed through + breach and brace, + And the splinters flew as they mostly do when a Government test + takes place. + + Then up stole Sam with his little ram and the nautical talk flowed + free, + And in good bold type might have covered the two front sheets of the + _P. M. G._ + + But the fog-horn bluff was safe enough, where all was weed and + weft, + And the conger-eels were a-making meals, and the pick of the tackle + left + Was a binnacle-lid and a leak in the bilge and the chip of a cracked + sheerstrake + And the corporal's belt and the moke's cool pelt and a portrait of + Francis Drake. + + So Sam he hauls the dead men's trawls and he booms for the + harbour-bar, + And the splitten fry are salted dry by the blink of the morning + star. + + And Sal o' the Dune was wed next moon by the man that paid his way + With a kipperling netted at noon of night and cured ere the crack of + day; + For such is the law of the herring fleet that bloats on the northern + main, + Tattooed in scars on the chests of the tars with a brand like the + brand of Cain. + + And still in the haunts of the Yang-tse-boo + Ever they tell the tale anew + Of the chase for the kipperling swag; + How the smack _Tommy This_ and the smack _Tommy That_ + They broached each other like a whiskey-vat, + And the _Fuzzy-Wuz_ took the bag. + + +5. + +A BALLAD OF A BUN. + +(AFTER J. D.) + + 'I am sister to the mountains now, + And sister to the sun and moon.' + + 'Heed not belletrist jargon.' + + JOHN DAVIDSON. + + + From Whitsuntide to Whitsuntide-- + That is to say, all through the year-- + Her patient pen was occupied + With songs and tales of pleasant cheer. + + But still her talent went to waste + Like flotsam on an open sea; + She never hit the public taste, + Or knew the knack of Bellettrie. + + Across the sounding City's fogs + There hurtled round her weary head + The thunder of the rolling logs; + "The Critics' Carnival!" she said. + + Immortal prigs took heaven by storm, + Prigs scattered largesses of praise; + The work of both was rather warm; + "This is," she said, "the thing that pays!" + + Sharp envy turned her wine to blood-- + I mean it turned her blood to wine; + And this resolve came like a flood-- + "The cake of knowledge must be mine! + + "I am in Eve's predicament-- + I sha'n't be happy till I've sinned; + Away!" She lightly rose, and sent + Her scruples sailing down the wind. + + She did not tear her open breast, + Nor leave behind a track of gore, + But carried flannel next her chest, + And wore the boots she always wore. + + Across the sounding City's din + She wandered, looking indiscreet, + And ultimately landed in + The neighbourhood of Regent Street. + + She ran against a resolute + Policeman standing like a wall; + She kissed his feet and asked the route + To where they held the Carnival. + + Her strange behaviour caused remark; + They said, "Her reason has been lost;" + Beside her eyes the gas was dark, + But that was owing to the frost. + + A Decadent was dribbling by; + "Lady," he said, "you seem undone; + You need a panacea; try + This sample of the Bodley bun. + + "It is fulfilled of precious spice, + Whereof I give the recipe;-- + Take common dripping, stew in vice, + And serve with vertu; taste and see! + + "And lo! I brand you on the brow + As kin to Nature's lowest germ; + You are sister to the microbe now, + And second-cousin to the worm." + + He gave her of his golden store, + Such hunger hovered in her look; + She took the bun, and asked for more, + And went away and wrote a book. + + To put the matter shortly, she + Became the topic of the town; + In all the lists of Bellettrie + Her name was regularly down. + + "We recognise," the critics wrote, + "Maupassant's verve and Heine's wit;" + Some even made a verbal note + Of Shakespeare being out of it. + + The seasons went and came again; + At length the languid Public cried: + "It is a sorry sort of Lane + That hardly ever turns aside. + + "We want a little change of air; + On that," they said, "we must insist; + We cannot any longer bear + The seedy sex-impressionist." + + Across the sounding City's din + This rumour smote her on the ear: + "The publishers are going in + For songs and tales of pleasant cheer!" + + "Alack!" she said, "I lost the art, + And left my womanhood foredone, + When first I trafficked in the mart + All for a mess of Bodley bun. + + "I cannot cut my kin at will, + Or jilt the protoplastic germ; + I am sister to the microbe still, + And second-cousin to the worm!" + + +6. + +A VIGO-STREET ECLOGUE. + +(AFTER THE SAME) + + Mæcenas. John. George. Arthur. Grant. Richard. + + MÆCENAS. + + What ho! a merry Christmas! Pff! + Sharp blows the frosty blizzard's whff! + Pile on more logs and let them roll, + And pass the humming wassail-bowl! + + JOHN. + + The wassail-bowl! the wind is snell! + Drinc hael! and warm the poet's pell! + + MÆCENAS. + + Richard! say something rustic. + + RICHARD. + + Lo! + The customary mistletoe, + Prehensile on the apple-bough, + Invites the usual kiss. + + GEORGE. + + And now + Cathartic hellebore should be + A cure for imbecility. + + GRANT. + + Now holly-berries have begun + To blush for Women That Have Done. + + ARTHUR. + + The farmer sticks his stuffy goose! + + MÆCENAS. + + Come, come, you grow a little loose; + That's Michaelmas; you must remember + That Michaelmas is in September! + + ARTHUR. + + Northward the swallow sweeps his wing. + + MÆCENAS. + + No, no! the bird arrives in spring! + + ARTHUR. + + Such knowledge fits the country clown; + We've better things to note in town. + What's Nature's lore compared with women's? + + JOHN. + + For this enigma go to S-m-ns; + He is the---- + + ARTHUR. + + Yes, I am, I know, + The devil of a Romeo! + + JOHN. + + Hark! hark! the waits, the precious waits! + Their music beats at Heaven's gates. + + MÆCENAS. + + What Bodley wight will sing a stave + To match their strumming? I would have + The manly bass of Hobbes's voice; + But Unwin's house is Hobbes's choice. + George! you've a baritone at need. + + GEORGE. + + Alas! my famous _Keynotes_ lead + To _Discords_. + + JOHN. + + I've a little thing + _Of Resurrection_. Shall I sing? + + ARTHUR. + + Please do; but _à propos_ of what? + + JOHN. + + I cannot say, unless _de bottes_. + +[_Proceeds to sing a Ballad of Resurrection._ + + A letter-card from my dear love! + O folded page of blessed blue! + She burst her many-buttoned glove, + And ripped the perforation through. + + "My love, to-night, about eleven, + With never a priest or passing-bell, + We die! and meet, with luck, in Heaven, + But anyhow at least in Hell!" + + Her courage very nearly failed, + In fact she swooned along the floor; + But curiosity prevailed, + She came again and read some more. + + "There is no way but this to choose; + My people fain would have us wed; + But you and I have later views, + And scorn the vulgar marriage-bed. + + "Far be it from me to dictate + How best to break the mortal bond, + But personally I may state + That I shall use the village pond. + + "Be punctual, love, and let us meet + For weal or woe! + This line has lost a pair of feet; + The post is now about to go." + + Ay, ay, she thought, to meet were well, + But if we found each other out? + You, say, in Heaven, I in Hell, + Or else the other way about! + + Nay, there be heavy odds, she said, + One fate shall save us both or damn; + We surely shall be bracketed! + She ceased and sent a telegram. + + To Guy le Preux de Balthazar-- + Here followed his address, and then + This pregnant message--"Right you are!" + She wrote it with the office pen. + + She flashed the phrase along the wires, + Then, passing by a dagger-shop, + Bought one and wiped it on her sire's + Best graduated razor-strop. + + On second thoughts, she said, I lean + To poison; true, a knife like this + Looks pretty, rib and rib between, + But people very often miss. + + She sought the chemist in his place; + He sampled her with searching eye; + She looked him frankly in the face, + And told a wicked, wicked lie. + + "My hen," she said,--"a bantam blend-- + Has hatched a poor demented chick; + To ease the gentle creature's end + I want a pint of arsenic." + + The chemist deemed the order large, + But said no thing and drew the drug; + She seized and bore the sacred charge + Before her in a pewter mug. + + At tea she faced her fell intent; + Dressing, she lightly laughed at doom; + Dined with the family, and spent + The evening in the drawing-room. + + At ten the early rooster crowed; + Ten-thirty struck and she was gone; + She crossed alone the naked road; + The road had really nothing on. + + Her golden braids hung down her back; + Within her side she felt a stitch; + And once the moon behind the wrack + Came out and caught her in a ditch. + + Once ere she reached the trysting-pear + She broke the slumber of the rooks; + She wrung her hands, she tore her hair, + And did as people do in books. + + From out her cloak she fetched the drug-- + "Thy health, my love, in Heaven or Hell!" + Deep to the dregs she drained the mug + And dropped it, feeling far from well. + + Upon the punctual stroke her fond + True lover kept the oath he swore; + Plunged softly in the village pond, + But feeling chilly swam ashore. + + Next morning in the judgment-place + Two pallid prisoners were tried; + Their guilt was plain; it was a case + Of ineffective suicide. + + Yestreen a member of the Force + Had found a woman deadly sick, + Lamenting, with sincere remorse, + An overdose of arsenic. + + Another heard upon his beat + One darkly muttering, "This is Hell!" + His weed was wet from head to feet; + He put him in a common cell. + + The Justice chewed the evidence; + His eyes were soft, his lips were bland; + It was, he said, a first offence; + He merely gave a reprimand. + + "Go free, my poppets, keep the laws, + And get ye wed at once," said he; + The court indulged in rude applause; + The usher cleared the gallery. + + The prison-warder, deeply stirred, + Approached the culprits at the bar; + Then haled them forth without a word + Towards the nearest Registrar. + + RICHARD. + + John, you surpass yourself. Next week + Expect a flattering critique! + + JOHN. + + The waits are whining in the cold + With clavicorn and clarigold; + They play them like a crumpled horn, + The clarigold and clavicorn. + + +7. + +AN ODE TO SPRING IN THE METROPOLIS. + +(AFTER R. LE G.) + + Is this the Seine? + And am I altogether wrong + About the brain, + Dreaming I hear the British tongue? + Dear Heaven! what a rhyme! + And yet 'tis all as good + As some that I have fashioned in my time, + Like _bud_ and _wood_; + And on the other hand you couldn't have a more precise or neater + Metre. + + Is this, I ask, the Seine? + And yonder sylvan lane, + Is it the _Bois_? + _Ma foi!_ + _Comme elle est chic_, my Paris, my grisette! + Yet may I not forget + That London still remains the missus + Of this Narcissus. + + No, no! 'tis not the Seine! + It is the artificial mere + That permeates St. James's Park. + The air is bosom-shaped and clear; + And, Himmel! do I hear the lark, + The good old Shelley-Wordsworth lark? + Even now, I prithee, + Hark + Him hammer + On Heaven's harmonious stithy, + Dew-drunken--like my grammar! + + And O the trees! + Beneath their shade the hairless coot + Waddles at ease, + Hushing the magic of his gurgling beak; + Or haply in Tree-worship leans his cheek + Against their blind + And hoary rind, + Observing how the sap + Comes humming upwards from the tap- + Root! + Thrice happy, hairless coot! + + And O the sun! + See, see, he shakes + His big red hands at me in wanton fun! + A glorious image that! it might be Blake's; + As in my critical capacity I took occasion to remark elsewhere, + When heaping praise + On this exceptionally happy phrase, + Although I made it up myself. + But I and Blake, we really constitute a pair, + Each being rather like an artless woodland elf. + + And O the stars! I cannot say + I see a star just now, + Not at this time of day; + But anyhow + The stars are all my brothers; + (This verse is shorter than the others). + + O Constitution Hill! + (This verse is shorter still). + + Ah! London, London in the Spring! + You are, you know you are, + So full of curious sights, + Especially by nights. + From gilded bar to gilded bar + Youth goes his giddy whirl, + His heart fulfilled of Music-Hall, + His arm fulfilled of girl! + I frankly call + That last effect a perfect pearl! + + I know it's + Not given to many poets + To frame so fair a thing + As this of mine, of Spring. + Indeed, the world grows Lilliput + All but + A precious few, the heirs of utter godlihead, + Who wear the yellow flower of blameless bodlihead! + + And they, with Laureates dead, look down + On smaller fry unworthy of the crown, + Mere mushroom men, puff-balls that advertise + And bravely think to brush the skies. + Great is advertisement with little men! + _Moi, qui vous parle, L- G-ll--nn-_, + Have told them so; + I ought to know! + + +8. + +YET. + +(AFTER F. E. W.) + + Sing me a drawing-room song, darling! + Sing by the sunset's glow; + Now while the shadows are long, darling; + Now while the lights are low; + Something so chaste and so coy, darling! + Something that melts the chest; + Milder than even Molloy, darling! + Better than Bingham's best. + + Sing me a drawing-room song, darling! + Sing as you sang of yore, + Lisping of love that is strong, darling! + Strong as a big barn-door; + Let the true knight be bold, darling! + Let him arrive too late; + Stick in a bower of gold, darling! + Stick in a golden gate. + + Sing me a drawing-room song, darling! + Bear on the angels' wings + Children that know no wrong, darling! + Little cherubic things! + Sing of their sunny hair, darling! + Get them to die in June; + Wake, if you can, on the stair, darling! + Echoes of tiny shoon. + + Sing me a drawing-room song, darling! + Sentiment may be false, + Yet it will worry along, darling! + Set to a tum-tum valse; + See that the verses are few, darling! + Keep to the rule of three; + That will be better for you, darling! + Certainly better for me. + + +9. + +ELEGI MUSARUM. + +(AFTER W. W.) + +[To Mr. St. Loe Strachey.] + + Dawn of the year that emerges, a fine and ebullient PhÅ“nix, + Forth from the cinders of Self, out of the ash of the Past; + Year that discovers my Muse in the thick of purpureal sonnets, + Slating diplomacy's sloth, blushing for 'Abdul the d----d'; + Year that in guise of a herald declaring the close of the tourney + Clears the redoubtable lists hot with the Battle of Bays; + Binds on the brows of the Tory, the highly respectable Austin, + Laurels that PhÅ“bus of old wore on the top of his tuft; + + Leaving the locks of the hydra, of Bodley the numerous-headed, + Clean as the chin of a boy, bare as a babe in a bath; + Year that--I see in the vista the principal verb of the sentence + Loom as a deeply-desired bride that is late at the post-- + Year that has painfully tickled the lachrymal nerves of the Muses, + Giving Another the gift due to Respectfully Theirs;-- + _Hinc illæ lacrimæ!_ Ah, reader! I grossly misled you; + See, it was false; there is no principal verb after all! + + His likewise is the anguish, who followed with soft serenading + Me as the tremulous tide tracks the meandering moon; + Climbing as Romeo clomb, peradventure by help of a flower-pot, + Where in her balconied bower lay, inexpressibly coy, + Juliet, not as the others, supinely, insanely erotic, + Pallid and yellow of hue, very degenerate souls, + Rioting round with the rapture of palpitant ichorous ardour, + But an immaculate maid, 'one,' you may say, 'of the best'! + His, I repeat, is the anguish--my journalist, eulogist critic, + Strachey, the generous judge, Saintly unlimited Loe! + + Vainly the stolid _Spectator_, bewildered with fabulous bow-wows, + Sick with a surfeit of dog, ran me for all it was worth! + Vainly--if I may recur to a metaphor drawn from the ocean, + Long (in a figure of speech) tied to the tail of the moon-- + Vainly, O excellent organ! with ample and aqueous unction + Once, as a rule, in a week, 'cleansing the Earth of her stain'; + (Here you will possibly pardon the natural scion of poets, + Proud with humility's pride, spoiling a passage from Keats)-- + Vainly your voice on the ears of impregnable Laureate-makers, + Rang as the sinuous sea rings on a petrified coast; + Vainly your voice with a subtle and slightly indelicate largess, + Broke on an obdurate world hymning the advent of Me; + When from the 'commune of air,' from 'the exquisite fabric of + Silence,' + I, a superior orb, burst into exquisite print! + + What shall we say for your greeting, O good horticultural Alfred! + Royalty's darling and pride, crown of the Salisbury Press? + Now when the negligent Public, in search of a subject for dinner, + Asks for the names of your books, Lord! what a boom there will + be! + Hoarse in Penbryn are the howlings that rise for the hope of the + Cymri; + Over her Algernon's head Putney composes a dirge; + Edwin anathematises politely in various lingos; + Davidson ruminates hard over a _Ballad of Hell_; + Fondly Le Gallienne fancies how pretty the Delphian laurels + Would have appeared on his own hairy and passionate poll; + I, imperturbably careless, untainted of jealousy's jaundice, + Simply regret the profane contumely done to the Muse; + Done to the Muse in the person of Me, her patron, that never + Licked Ministerial lips, dusted the boots of the Court! + Surely I hear through the noisy and nauseous clamour of Carlton + Sobs of the sensitive Nine heave upon Helicon's hump! + + + + +II. TO MR. WILLIAM WATSON. + +[On writing the first instalment of _The Purple East_, a 'fine sonnet +which it is our privilege to publish.'--_Westminster Gazette_, Dec. +16, 1895.] + + + Dear Mr. Watson, we have heard with wonder, + Not all unmingled with a sad regret, + That little penny blast of purple thunder, + You issued in the _Westminster Gazette_; + The Editor describes it as a sonnet; + I wish to make a few remarks upon it. + + _Never, O craven England, nevermore + Prate thou of generous effort, righteous aim!_ + So ran the lines, and left me very sore, + For you may guess my heart was hot with shame: + Even thus early in your ample song + I felt that something must be really wrong. + + But when I learned that our ignoble nation + Lay sleeping like a log, and lay alone, + Propping, according to your information, + _Abdul the Damned on his infernal throne_, + O then I scattered to the wind my fears, + And nearly went and joined the Volunteers. + + But just in time the thought occurred to me + That England commonly commits her course + To men as good at heart as even we + And possibly much richer in resource; + That we had better mind our own affairs + And leave these gentlemen to manage theirs. + + It further seemed a work uncommon light + For one like you, a casual civilian, + To order half a hemisphere to fight + And slaughter one another by the million, + While you yourself, a paper Galahad, + Spilt ink for blood upon a blotting-pad. + + The days are gone when sword and poet's pen + One gallant gifted hand was wont to wield; + When Taillefer in face of Harold's men + Rode foremost on to Senlac's fatal field, + And tossed his sword in air, and sang a spell + Of Roland's battle-song, and, singing, fell. + + The days are gone when troubadours by dozens + Polished their steel and joined the stout crusade, + Strumming, in memory of pretty cousins, + _The Girl I left behind Me_, on parade; + They often used to rattle off a ballad in + The intervals of punishing the Saladin. + + In later times, of course I know there's Byron, + Who by his own report could play the man; + I seem to see him with his Lesbian lyre on, + And brandishing a useful yataghan; + Though never going altogether strong, he + Managed at least to die at Missolonghi. + + No more the trades of lute and lance are linked, + Though doubtless under many martial bonnets + Brave heads there be that harbour the distinct + Belief that they can manufacture sonnets; + But on the other hand a bard is not + Supposed to run the risk of being shot. + + Then since your courage lacks a crucial test, + And politics were never your profession, + Dear Mr. Watson, won't you find it best + To temper valour with a due discretion? + That so, despite the fond _Spectator's_ booming, + Above your brow the bays may yet be blooming. + + + + +III. ENGLAND'S ALFRED ABROAD. + +[M. Alfred Austin, poète-lauréat d'Angleterre, vient d'arriver à +Nice, où il a devancé la Reine. Il était, hier, dans les jardins de +Monte-Carlo. Sera-ce sous notre ciel qu'il écrira son premier +poème?--_Menton-Mondain_.] + + + Wrong? are they wrong? Of course they are, + I venture to reply; + For I bore 'my first' (and, I hope, my worst) + A month or so gone by; + And I can't repeat it under this + Or any other sky. + + What! has the public never heard + In these benighted climes + That nascent note of my Laureate throat, + That fluty fitte of rhymes + Which occupied about a half + A column of the _Times_? + + They little know what they have lost, + Nor what a carnal beano + They might have spent in the thick of Lent + If only Daniel Leno + Had sung them _Jameson's Ride_ and knocked + The Monaco Casino. + + Some day the croupiers' furtive eyes + Will all be wringing wet; + Even the Prince will hardly mince + The language of regret + At entertaining unawares + The famed Alhambra Pet. + + But still not quite incognito + I mark the moving scene, + In a tepid zone where (like my own) + The palms are ever green, + And find myself reported as + A herald of the Queen. + + Here where aloft the heavens are blue, + And blue the seas below, + I roll my eye and fondly try + To get the rhymes to go, + As I pace _The Garden that I love_, + Composing all I know. + + But when my poet-pinions droop, + And all the air is wan, + I enter in to the courts of sin + And put a louis on, + And hold my heart and look again, + And lo! the thing is gone! + + Wrong? is it wrong? To baser crafts + Has England's Alfred pandered, + Who once to the sign of PhÅ“bus' shrine + With awesome gait meandered, + And ever wrote in the cause of right + According to his _Standard_? + + Nay! this is life! to take a turn + On Fortune's captious crust; + To pluck the day in a human way + Like men of common dust; + But O! if England's only bard + Should absolutely bust! + + A laureate never borrows on + His coming quarter's pay; + And I mean to stop or ever I pop + My crown of peerless bay; + So I'll take the next _rapide_ to Nice, + And the 'bus to Cimiez. + + _MENTONE, Feb., 1896._ + + + + +IV. LILITH LIBIFERA. + + + Exhumed from out the inner cirque of Hell + By kind permission of the Evil One, + Behold her devilish presentment, done + By Master Aubrey's weird unearthly spell! + This is that Lady known as Jezebel, + Or Lilith, Eden's woman-scorpion, + Libifera, that is, that takes the bun, + Borgia, Vivien, Cussed Damosel. + + Hers are the bulging lips that fairly break + The pumpkin's heart; and hers the eyes that shame + The wanton ape that culls the cocoa-nuts. + Even such the yellow-bellied toads that slake + Nocturnally their amorous-ardent flame + In the wan waste of weary water-butts. + + + + +V. ARS POSTERA. + +[On an advertisement of _A Comedy of Sighs_.] + + + Mr. Aubrey Beer de Beers, + You're getting quite a high renown; + Your Comedy of Leers, you know, + Is posted all about the town; + This sort of stuff I cannot puff, + As Boston says, it makes me 'tired'; + Your Japanee-Rossetti girl + Is not a thing to be desired. + + Mr. Aubrey Beer de Beers, + New English Art (excuse the chaff) + Is like the Newest Humour style, + It's not a thing at which to laugh; + But all the same, you need not maim + A beauty reared on Nature's rules; + A simple maid _au naturel_ + Is worth a dozen spotted ghouls. + + Mr. Aubrey Beer de Beers, + You put strange phantoms on our walls, + If not so daring as _To-day's_, + Nor quite so Hardy as _St. Paul's_; + Her sidelong eyes, her giddy guise,-- + _Grande Dame Sans Merci_ she may be; + But there is that about her throat + Which I myself don't care to see. + + Mr. Aubrey Beer de Beers, + The Philistines across the way, + They say her lips--well, never mind + Precisely what it is they say; + But I have heard a drastic word + That scarce is fit for dainty ears; + But then their taste is not the kind + Of taste to flatter Beer de Beers. + + Bless me, Aubrey Beer de Beers, + On fair Elysian lawns apart + Burd Helen of the Trojan time + Smiles at the latest mode of Art; + Howe'er it be, it seems to me, + It's not important to be New; + New Art would better Nature's best, + But Nature knows a thing or two. + + Aubrey, Aubrey Beer de Beers, + Are there no models at your gate, + Live, shapely, possible and clean? + Or won't they do to 'decorate'? + Then by all means bestrew your scenes + With half the lotuses that blow, + Pothooks and fishing-lines and things, + But let the human woman go! + + + + +VI. A NEW BLUE BOOK. + +[It was hardly to be supposed that the young decadents who once rioted +... in the _Yellow Book_ would be content to remain in obscurity after +the metamorphosis of that periodical and the consequent exclusion of +themselves. The _Savoy_, we learn, to be edited by Mr. Arthur Symons +and Mr. Aubrey Beardsley, will appear early in December.--_Globe_.] + + + 'The world's great age begins anew,' + Cold virtue's weeds are cast; + Our heads are light, our tales are blue, + And things are moving fast; + And no one any longer quarrels + With anybody else's morals. + + A racier journal stamps its pages + With Beardsleys braver far; + A bolder Editor engages + To shame the morning star, + On _London Nights_, not near so chilly, + Sampling a shadier Piccadilly. + + Satyr and Faun their late repose + Now burst like anything; + New Mænads, turning sprightlier toes, + Enjoy a jauntier fling; + With lustier lips old Pan shall play + Drain-pipes along the sewer's way. + + Priapus, wrongly left for dead, + Is dead no more than Pan; + Silenus rises from his bed + And hiccups like a man; + There's something rather chaste (between us) + About Priapus and Silenus. + + O cease to brew your Bodley pap + Whence all the spice is spent! + The splendour of its primal tap + Was gone when Aubrey went; + Behold that subtle Sphinx prepare + Fresh liquors fit to lift your hair. + + Another Magazine shall rise + And paint the palsied town, + Of humbler hue, of simpler size, + And sold at half a crown; + Please note the pregnant brand--_Savoy_, + And don't confuse with _saveloy_.[*] + + +FOOTNOTES: + + [*] Saveloy, a kind of sausage; French _cervelas_, from its containing + brains.--SKEAT. + + + + +VII. TO A BOY-POET OF THE DECADENCE. + +[Showing curious reversal of epigram--'La nature l'a fait sanglier; la +civilisation l'a réduit à l'état de cochon.'] + + + But my good little man, you have made a mistake + If you really are pleased to suppose + That the Thames is alight with the lyrics you make; + We could all do the same if we chose. + + From Solomon down, we may read, as we run, + Of the ways of a man and a maid; + There is nothing that's new to us under the sun, + And certainly not in the shade. + + The erotic affairs that you fiddle aloud + Are as vulgar as coin of the mint; + And you merely distinguish yourself from the crowd + By the fact that you put 'em in print. + + You're a 'prentice, my boy, in the primitive stage, + And you itch, like a boy, to confess: + When you know a bit more of the arts of the age + You will probably talk a bit less. + + For your dull little vices we don't care a fig, + It is _this_ that we deeply deplore; + You were cast for a common or usual pig, + But you play the invincible bore. + + + + +VIII. TO JULIA IN SHOOTING TOGS + +and a Herrickose vein. + + + Whenas to shoot my Julia goes, + Then, then, (methinks) how bravely shows + That rare arrangement of her clothes! + + So shod as when the Huntress Maid + With thumping buskin bruised the glade, + She moveth, making earth afraid. + + Against the sting of random chaff + Her leathern gaiters circle half + The arduous crescent of her calf. + + Unto th' occasion timely fit, + My love's attire doth show her wit, + And of her legs a little bit. + + Sorely it sticketh in my throat, + She having nowhere to bestow't, + To name the absent petticoat. + + In lieu whereof a wanton pair + Of knickerbockers she doth wear, + Full windy and with space to spare. + + Enlargéd by the bellying breeze, + Lord! how they playfully do ease + The urgent knocking of her knees! + + Lengthways curtailéd to her taste + A tunic circumvents her waist, + And soothly it is passing chaste. + + Upon her head she hath a gear + Even such as wights of ruddy cheer + Do use in stalking of the deer. + + Haply her truant tresses mock + Some coronal of shapelier block, + To wit, the bounding billy-cock. + + Withal she hath a loaded gun, + Whereat the pheasants, as they run, + Do make a fair diversión. + + For very awe, if so she shoots, + My hair upriseth from the roots, + And lo! I tremble in my boots! + + + + +IX. THE LINKS OF LOVE. + + + My heart is like a driver-club, + That heaves the pellet hard and straight, + That carries every let and rub, + The whole performance really great; + My heart is like a bulger-head, + That whiffles on the wily tee, + Because my love has kindly said + She'll halve the round of life with me. + + My heart is also like a cleek, + Resembling most the mashie sort, + That spanks the object, so to speak, + Across the sandy bar to port; + And hers is like a putting-green, + The haven where I boast to be, + For she assures me she is keen + To halve the round of life with me. + + Raise me a bunker, if you can, + That beetles o'er a deadly ditch, + Where any but the bogey-man + Is practically bound to pitch; + Plant me beneath a hedge of thorn, + Or up a figurative tree, + What matter, when my love has sworn + To halve the round of life with me? + + + + +X. SWORDS AND PLOUGHSHARES. + +PART I. PRESTO FURIOSO. + + + Spontaneous Us! + O my Camarados! I have no delicatesse as a diplomat, but I go blind + on Libertad! + Give me the flap-flap of the soaring Eagle's pinions! + Give me the tail of the British lion tied in a knot inextricable, + not to be solved anyhow! + Give me a standing army (I say 'give me,' because just at present we + want one badly, armies being often useful in time of war). + + I see our superb fleet (I take it that we are to have a superb fleet + built almost immediately); + I observe the crews prospectively; they are constituted of various + nationalities, not necessarily American; + I see them sling the slug and chew the plug; + I hear the drum begin to hum; + + Both the above rhymes are purely accidental and contrary to my + principles. + We shall wipe the floor of the mill-pond with the scalps of + able-bodied British tars! + I see Professor Edison about to arrange for us a torpedo-hose on + wheels, likewise an infernal electro-semaphore; + I see Henry Irving dead-sick and declining to play Corporal + Brewster; + Cornell, I yell! I yell Cornell! + + I note the Manhattan boss leaving his dry-goods store and investing + in a small Gatling-gun and a ten-cent banner; + I further note the Identity evolved out of forty-four spacious and + thoughtful States; + I note Canada as shortly to be merged in that Identity; similarly + Van Diemen's Land, Gibraltar and Stratford-on-Avon; + Briefly, I see Creation whipped! + + O ye Colonels! I am with you (I too am a Colonel and on the + pension-list); + I drink to the lot of you; to Colonels Cleveland, Hitt, Vanderbilt, + Chauncey M. Depew, O'Donovan Rossa and the late Colonel + Monroe; + I drink an egg-flip, a morning-caress, an eye-opener, a maiden-bosom, + a vermuth-cocktail, three sherry-cobblers and a gin-sling! + Good old Eagle! + + +PART II. INTERMEZZO DOLOROSO. + +[Allowing time for the fall of American securities to the extent of +some odd hundred millions sterling; also for the Day of Rest.] + + +PART III. ANDANTE AMABILE. + + Who breathed a word of war? + Why, surely we are men and Plymouth brothers! + Pray, what in thunder should we cut each other's + Carotids for? + + Merciful powers forefend! + For we by gold-edged bonds are bound alway, + Besides a lot of things that never pay + A dividend! + + Christmas! we cry thee _Ave_! + At such a time, when hearts with love are filled, + It seems inopportune for us to build + The needful navy. + + In fact in many a church + Uprise the prayer and supplicating psalm + That Heaven would keep our spreading Eagle calm + Upon his perch. + + Goodwill and peace and plenty! + Our leading congregations here agree + To vote for this arrangement, _nemine + Contradicente_. + + Greatly be they extolléd + Who occupied the tabernacle-chair + And put it to the meeting then and there + And passed it solid! + + That print has also played + A useful part that sent an invitation + To Redmond to relieve the situation + (Answer prepaid). + + Say, Sirs, and shall we sever? + And mar the fair exchange of fatted steers, + Chicago pig, and eligible peers? + No! never, never! + + Shall gore be made to flow? + Like kindred Sohrabs shall we knock our Rustums, + And blast our beautiful McKinley customs? + Lord love us! no! + + Then, burst the sundering bar! + Our punctured pockets yearn across the ocean; + Till now we never had the faintest notion + How dear you are! + + O love of other years! + Wall Street, aweary for her broken bliss, + Waits like a loving crocodile to kiss + Again with tears! + + + + +XI. TO THE LORD OF POTSDAM. + +[On sending a certain telegram.] + + + Majestic Monarch! whom the other gods, + For fear of their immediate removal, + Consulting hourly, seek your awful nod's + Approval; + + Lift but your little finger up to strike, + And lo! 'the massy earth is riven' (Shelley), + The habitable globe is shaken like + A jelly. + + By your express permission for the last + Eight years the sun has regularly risen; + And editors, that questioned this, have passed + To prison. + + In Art you simply have to say, "I shall!" + Beethoven's fame is rendered transitory; + And Titian cloys beside your clever all- + -egory. + + We hailed you Admiral: your eagle sight + Foresaw Her Majesty's benign intentions; + A uniform was ready of the right + Dimensions. + + Your wardrobe shines with all the shapes and shades, + That genius can fix in fancy suitings; + For _levées_, false alarums, full parades + And shootings. + + But save the habit marks the man of gore + Your spurs are yet to win, my callow Kaiser! + Of fighting in the field you know no more + Than I, Sir! + + When Grandpapa was thanking God with hymns + For gallant Frenchmen dying in the ditches, + Your nurse had barely braced your little limbs + In breeches. + + And doubtless, where he roosts beside his bock, + The Game Old Bird that played the leading fiddle + Smiles grimly as he hears your perky cock- + -a-diddle. + + Be well advised, my youthful friend, abjure + These tricks that smack of Cleon and the tanners; + And let the Dutch instruct a German Boor + In manners. + + Nor were you meant to solve the nations' knots, + Or be the Earth's Protector, willy-nilly; + You only make yourself and royal Pots- + -dam silly. + + Our racing yachts are not at present dressed + In bravery of bunting to amuse you, + Nor can the licence of an honoured guest + Excuse you. + + But if your words are more than wanton play + And you would like to meet the old sea-rover, + Name any course from Delagoa Bay + To Dover. + + Meanwhile observe a proper reticence; + We ask no more; there never was a rumour + Of asking Hohenzollerns for a sense + Of humour! + + + + +XII. FROM THE LORD OF POTSDAM. + + + We, William, Kaiser, planted on Our throne + By heaven's grace, but chiefly by Our own, + Do deign to speak. Then let the earth be dumb, + And other nations cease their senseless hum! + Seldom, if ever, does a chance arise + For Us to pose before Our people's eyes; + But this is one of them, this natal day + Whereon Our Ancient and Imperial sway, + Which to the battle's death-defying trump + Welded the States in one confounded lump, + (As many tasty meats are blent within + The German sausage's encircling skin) + By Our decree is twenty-five precisely, + And, under Us (and God) still doing nicely. + Therefore ye Princelings, Plenipotentates, + And Representatives of various States, + A cool Imperial pint your Kaiser drains, + Both to Our 'more immediate' domains, + And to Our lands, Our isles beyond the sea, + Our World-embracing Greater Germany! + Let loose the breathings of Our Royal Band, + We give a rouse--_hoch! hoch!_--to HELGOLAND! + +[_Kaiserliche Kapelle_ plays: _O Helgoland! mein Helgoland!_ Air--_Die +Wacht am Rhein_.] + +WILLIAM, KAISER, continues:-- + + There are that languish on this festal day + Damned and impounded for _lèse-majesté_; + We, William, in Our plentitude of grace, + Propose to pardon every hundredth case; + And though their sentence was no more than just + We offer each a copy of Our bust, + With option of a fine; but, be it known, + Whoso again shall deem his life his own, + Or find in Ours the faintest flaw or fleck, + God helping, We will hang him by the neck. + Yea, he shall surely curse his impious star + That dares to question Who or where We are! + Worship your Cæsar, and (C.V.) your God; + Who spares the child may haply spoil the rod. + Many Our uniforms, but We are one, + And one Our empire over which the sun, + Careering on his cloud-compulsive way, + Sets once, but never more than once, a day. + The seas are Ours: world-wide upon the oceans + Our fleet commands the liveliest emotions; + Go where you will, you find Our German manners + Prevailing under other people's banners; + Go where you will, you cannot but remark + The cheap, but never nasty, German clerk; + Observe Our exports; do you ever see + Things made as they are made in Germany? + Always at home on Earth's remotest shores + _E.g._, among Our loved, low-German Boers, + Freely Our folk expectorate, and there + Our German bands inflame the balmy air; + Likewise again Our passionate bassoons + Tickle the niggers of the Cameroons; + Or others over whom Our Eagle flaps + In places not at present on the maps. + One more Imperial pint! your Kaiser drinks + To German intercourse with missing links! + Let loose the breathings of Our Royal Band, + We give--_hoch! hoch!_--Our glorious HINTERLAND! + +[_Kaiserliche Kapelle_ plays: _O Hinterland! mein Hinterland!_ (Air as +before); during which WILLIAM, KAISER, resumes his throne.] + + + + +XIII. 'THE SPACIOUS TIMES.' + +[On Drake's return from his filibustering expedition of 1580 the Queen +went on board his ship at Deptford, and after partaking of a banquet +conferred on him the honour of knighthood, at the same time declaring +herself mightily pleased with all that he had done.] + + + I wish that I had flourished then, + When ruffs and raids were in the fashion, + When Shakespeare's art and Raleigh's pen + Encouraged patriotic passion; + For though I draw my happy breath + Beneath a Queen as good and gracious, + The times of Great Elizabeth + Were more conveniently spacious. + + Large-hearted age of cakes and ale! + When, undeterred by nice conditions, + Good Master Drake would lightly sail + On little privateer commissions; + Careering round with sword and flame + And no pretence of polished manners, + He planted out in England's name + A most refreshing lot of banners. + + Blest era, when the reckless tar, + Elated by a sense of duty, + Feared not to face his country's Bar + But freely helped himself to booty; + Returning home with bulging hold + The Queen would meet him, much excited, + Pronounce him worth his weight in gold + And promptly have the hero knighted. + + No Extra Special, piping hot, + Broke out in unexpected Pyrrhics; + No Poet Laureate on the spot + Composed apologetic lyrics; + Transpiring slowly by-and-by, + The act was voted one of loyalty; + The nation winked the other eye, + And pocketed the usual royalty. + + Ere Reuter yet had found his range, + These trifles done across the ocean + Produced upon the Stock Exchange + No preternatural emotion; + Not yet the Kaiserlich I AM + Made wingéd words and then repented; + He wrote as yet no telegram, + Nor was, in fact, himself invented. + + No Justice Hawkins gauged the fault + Of irresponsible incursions; + The early Hawkins, gallant salt, + Knew well the charm of such diversions; + Men never saw that moving sight + When legal luminaries muster, + And very solemnly indict + A well-conducted filibuster. + + No Member had the hardy nerve + To criticise our depredations + As unadapted to preserve + The perfect comity of nations; + No High Commissioner would doubt + If brigandage was quite judicial; + Indeed we mostly did without + This rather eminent Official. + + No Ministry would care a rap + For theoretic arbitration; + They simply modified the map + To meet the latest annexation; + And so without appeal to law, + Or other needless waste of tissue, + The Lion, where he put his paw, + Remained and propagated issue. + + To-day we wax exceeding fat + On lands our roving fathers raided; + And blush with holy horror at + Their lawless sons who do as they did; + No doubt the age improves a lot, + It grows more honest, more veracious; + But, as I said, the times are not + Quite so conveniently spacious. + + + + +NOTE + + +To the Editors of _The World_ and _The National Observer_, and to the +Proprietors of _Punch_, I wish to express my thanks for their courtesy +in permitting me to republish these verses. + +O. S. + + * * * * * + + + + +The Battle of the Bays. + + _Eighth Edition._ + Price 3s. 6d. _net._ Fcap. 8vo. Price $1.25. + +SOME PRESS OPINIONS. + +"The new 'Rejected Addresses' of Mr. Owen Seaman are quite worthy to +be ranked with the classic volumes of Horace and James.... The thing +is done as well as it could be.... This little volume is _merum +sal_."--_The Spectator_. + +"Mr. Kipling has never been so nimbly caught before, for Mr. Seaman +has the art to reproduce his flute-notes as well as his big drum.... +Several of the miscellaneous pieces are among the very best humourous +poetry of this generation. We have laughed at nothing lately more than +at 'Ars Postera,' at 'A New Blue Book,' at 'To a Boy-Poet of the +Decadence,' and at 'To Julia in Shooting Togs.' But, after all, Mr. +Seaman's masterpiece up to date is certainly 'To the Lord of Potsdam.' +... This will live, or we are greatly mistaken, among the most +effective examples of historical satire-lyric."--_The Saturday +Review_. + +"It is certainly remarkable, in our dearth of great poetry, how good +of its sort the satiric verse of our day is--so good, in fact, that +nothing but the best will serve, and even the best, like Mr. Seaman's, +which in the day when Sir George Trevelyan was a wit would have taken +people's breath away, is apt to be treated as mere journalism.... But +really it is the most characteristic expression of our time, using the +accustomed forms of verse to point the neatest criticisms and the +slyest of epigrams.... Mr. Seaman's humourous imitation of Mr. +Swinburne, Sir Edwin Arnold, Sir Lewis Morris, Mr. Kipling, and the +rest, is in every case very funny."--_St. James's Gazette_. + +"The book abounds in excellent fooling and really wholesome satire, +the ingenuity and felicity of verse and expression giving it likewise +a high artistic value.... Quips and cranks of audacious wit, strokes +of a humour always sane and healthy, waylay the reader incessantly, +and leave him no peace for laughter."--_The Westminster Gazette_. + +"Mr. Seaman must be tired of being compared to Calverley and J. K. S., +but he is of their company, and, what is more, on their level. 'The +Battle of the Bays' ... bristles with points; it is brilliant, ... and +it has that easy conversational flow which is the one absolutely +necessary characteristic of good humourous poetry.... One charm of +writing such as Mr. Seaman's is that it makes us feel quite obliged to +poets whom we have never admired for being so good to parody."--_Pall +Mall Gazette_. + +"Mr. Owen Seaman has a very neat talent for parody.... The 'Ballad of +a Bun' is exceedingly funny, and ought to make even Mr. John Davidson +laugh.... All the imitations are good."--_The Times_. + +"His versatility and bright and ready wit are conspicuous in all his +work. As a parodist he is second to none, not even to Mr. Calverley, +if we may take the word of the reviewers.... Mr. Seaman cracks the +whip with consummate skill, and applies it with such naughty +precision, that even his victims must find it difficult to withhold +their admiration."--_The National Observer_. + + * * * * * + + +_BY THE SAME AUTHOR._ + +Horace at Cambridge + + _New and Revised Edition._ + Price 3s. 6d. _net._ Fcap. 8vo. Price $1.25. + +"To every university man ... this book will be a rare treat. But in +virtue of its humour, its extreme and felicitous dexterity of +workmanship both in rhyme and metre ... it will appeal to a far wider +public."--_Punch_. + +"We very cordially recommend Mr. Seaman's book ... to all who are +likely to care for verse which is not unworthy to be ranked with the +efforts of Calverley the immortal."--_The World_. + +"Mr. Seaman manages his ingenious metres with unfailing skill."--_The +Athenæum_. + +"A genial cynic with a genuine smack of Bon Gaultier."--_St. James's +Gazette_. + +"The humour is bright and spontaneous."--_The Times_. + +"Mr. Seaman's book is never slipshod; it has the neatness, the +precision, the sparkle of its Latin namesake."--_The Spectator_. + + +Tillers of the Sand + + SMITH, ELDER & CO., London. 3s. 6d. + +"In the political sphere Mr. Seaman is at present without a +rival."--_The Globe_. + +"Taken as a whole, we are much mistaken if any better volume of +political verse has made its appearance since the days of the +_Rolliad_ and the _Anti-Jacobin_."--_The World_. + +"The best of the satirists on the other side is Mr. Owen Seaman, who +has touched off some of the weaknesses of the late government with +very happy and caustic humour."--_The Spectator_. + +"Mr. Seaman is own brother to Calverley, and in modern times there has +been nothing so good of its sort as 'Tillers of the Sand.'... Mr. +Seaman proves himself so brilliant a jester that it needs must be he +takes the jester's privilege of offending no one."--_The Speaker_. + +"One of the most accomplished writers of occasional verse +to-day."--_Bookman_. + +"It is all so good that passages are hard to choose."--_Scotsman_. + +"The author's rare quality--a capacity for satirizing one's political +opponents with a wit that leaves no wound."--Mr. JAMES PAYN in _The +Illustrated London News_. + +"Brilliant and inimitable."--_Chicago Daily News_. + + +In Cap and Bells + + _Fifth Edition._ + Price 3s. 6d. _net._ Fcap. 8vo. Price $1.25. + +"Here is no shouting, no banging of the bauble. The form of phrase, +the inflexion of voice, the dancing light of humour, make up the +motley which is the true jester's 'only wear'; and under his flashes +of merriment is a sober, sound philosophy. This, after all, is the +only kind of humour that lasts ... it is easy to appreciate, difficult +to acquire; and Mr. Owen Seaman, having acquired it with all the +felicity of good humour and art, stands practically alone among the +humourists of the hour.... His technical quality seems to strengthen +with every new volume."--Mr. ARTHUR WAUGH in _The St. James' +Gazette_. + +"Clean laughter, and scholarly wit; polished metre, and humorous +phrase--these are to me the essential characteristics for which I am +invariably glad to read Mr. Owen Seaman."--Mr. THEODORE COOK in +_Literature_. + +"The brilliant author of 'Cap and Bells' assumes, before the eyes of a +later generation, the mantle of Crawley, and does the same sort of +work more felicitously still."--_The Speaker_. + +"At the end of the volume Mr. Seaman gives agreeable evidence that, in +the domain of memorial and complimentary verse, he has the knack of +combining felicity of phrase with a wholesome avoidance alike of +adulation and excess. The 'In Memoriam' lines to Lewis Carroll, with +the graceful reference to Sir John Tenniel, are particularly +happy."--_The Spectator_. + +"Calverley had not, or did not show in his verses, Mr. Seaman's +critical acuteness and depth.... As a critic in the form of parody, +Mr. Seaman is without a rival.... Of his serious poems an ode to Queen +Wilhelmina is a very graceful accomplishment of a difficult +task."--Mr. G. S. STREET in _The Pall Mall Magazine_. + +"Mr. Seaman is what we may call a critic of mannerisms, and a very +keen critic to boot. His is a useful, not a merely destructive, +function. He is no wanton debaser of the poetic currency. One might +rather call him a touchstone of true merit in poetry."--_Daily +Chronicle_. + +"A new volume from the pen of Mr. Owen Seaman must needs be welcome. +He is the most accomplished versifier among all our jesters."--_The +Globe_. + +"The parodies in Mr. Seaman's new volume are wonderful examples of +this difficult art; the Stephen Phillips, the Alfred Austin, the +Watts-Dunton, and the George Meredith are faultless."--_Academy_. + +"Mr. Owen Seaman has already made his reputation as, perhaps, the +surest modern poet to make you laugh, and the nature of his new +collection of copies of verse cannot be better described than by +saying that it is well worthy of his hand.... The book is heartsome +and delightful all through."--_The Scotsman_. + +"The present vogue of Mr. Owen Seaman's delightful parodies is very +great."--_Liverpool Courier_. + + +JOHN LANE: The Bodley Head, London & New York. + + * * * * * + + + + +Transcriber Notes + +Typographical inconsistencies have been changed and are listed below. + +Hyphenation standardized and is also listed below. + +Archaic and variable spelling is preserved. + +Author's punctuation style is preserved, including some hyphenated +words that are integral to a poem. + +Passages in italics indicated by _underscores_. + +Passages in bold indicated by =equal signs=. + + +Transcriber Changes + +The following changes were made to the original text: + + Page 22: Was 'bellettrist' ('Heed not =belletrist= jargon.') + + Page 45: Was 'lachrimal' (Year that has painfully tickled the + =lachrymal= nerves of the Muses) + + Page 84: Added semi-colon after 'Pyrrhics' (Broke out in unexpected + =Pyrrhics;=) + + Page 88: Was 'applys' and 'precison' (Mr. Seaman cracks the whip + with consummate skill, and =applies= it with such naughty + =precision=, that even his victims must find it difficult + to withhold their admiration.) + + Page 89: Changed to single quotes (in modern times there has been + nothing so good of its sort as ='Tillers of the Sand.'=) + + Advertisements: Changed to single quotes (the dancing light of + humour, make up the motley which is the true + jester's ='only wear'=; and under his flashes of + merriment is a sober, sound philosophy.) + + Advertisements: Was 'Arthuh' (His technical quality seems to + strengthen with every new volume."--Mr. =ARTHUR= + WAUGH in _The St. James' Gazette_.) + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Battle of the Bays, by Owen Seaman + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE BATTLE OF THE BAYS *** + +***** This file should be named 29515-0.txt or 29515-0.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/2/9/5/1/29515/ + +Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Katherine Ward, and the +Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://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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Donations are accepted in a number of other +ways including including checks, online payments and credit card +donations. To donate, please visit: https://pglaf.org/donate + + +Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg-tm electronic +works. + +Professor Michael S. Hart was the originator of the Project Gutenberg-tm +concept of a library of electronic works that could be freely shared +with anyone. For thirty years, he produced and distributed Project +Gutenberg-tm eBooks with only a loose network of volunteer support. + + +Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks are often created from several printed +editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the U.S. +unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not necessarily +keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition. + + +Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility: + + https://www.gutenberg.org + +This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm, +including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary +Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to +subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks. diff --git a/29515-0.zip b/29515-0.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..28ac3e3 --- /dev/null +++ b/29515-0.zip diff --git a/29515-8.txt b/29515-8.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..4ef004a --- /dev/null +++ b/29515-8.txt @@ -0,0 +1,2507 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Battle of the Bays, by Owen Seaman + +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: The Battle of the Bays + +Author: Owen Seaman + +Release Date: July 27, 2009 [EBook #29515] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE BATTLE OF THE BAYS *** + + + + +Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Katherine Ward, and the +Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net + + + + + + + + + +THE BATTLE OF THE BAYS + + + _By the same Author_ + + IN CAP AND BELLS + HORACE AT CAMBRIDGE + TILLERS OF THE SAND + + + BY OWEN SEAMAN + + + JOHN LANE + THE BODLEY HEAD + LONDON & NEW YORK + 1902 + + + _Copyright in the United States._ + _All Rights Reserved._ + + + _Eighth Edition_ + + + + +CONTENTS. + + PAGE + I. The Battle of the Bays 1 + 1. A Song of Renunciation 1 + 2. For the Albums of Crowned Heads Only 5 + 3. Marsyas in Hades 11 + 4. The Rhyme of the Kipperling 15 + 5. A Ballad of a Bun 22 + 6. A Vigo-Street Eclogue 27 + 7. An Ode to Spring in the Metropolis 37 + 8. Yet 42 + 9. Elegi Musarum 44 + II. To Mr. William Watson 49 + III. England's Alfred Abroad 53 + IV. Lilith Libifera 57 + V. Ars Postera 58 + VI. A New Blue Book 61 + VII. To a Boy-Poet of the Decadence 64 + VIII. To Julia in Shooting Togs 66 + IX. The Links of Love 69 + X. Swords and Ploughshares 71 + XI. To the Lord of Potsdam 76 + XII. From the Lord of Potsdam 80 + XIII. 'The Spacious Times' 83 + + + + +I. THE BATTLE OF THE BAYS. + +1. + +A SONG OF RENUNCIATION. + +(AFTER A. C. S.) + + + In the days of my season of salad, + When the down was as dew on my cheek, + And for French I was bred on the ballad, + For Greek on the writers of Greek,-- + Then I sang of the rose that is ruddy, + Of 'pleasure that winces and stings,' + Of white women and wine that is bloody, + And similar things. + + Of Delight that is dear as Desi-er, + And Desire that is dear as Delight; + Of the fangs of the flame that is fi-er, + Of the bruises of kisses that bite; + Of embraces that clasp and that sever, + Of blushes that flutter and flee + Round the limbs of Dolores, whoever + Dolores may be. + + I sang of false faith that is fleeting + As froth of the swallowing seas, + Time's curse that is fatal as Keating + Is fatal to amorous fleas; + Of the wanness of woe that is whelp of + The lust that is blind as a bat-- + By the help of my Muse and the help of + The relative THAT. + + Panatheist, bruiser and breaker + Of kings and the creatures of kings, + I shouted on Freedom to shake her + Feet loose of the fetter that clings; + Far rolling my ravenous red eye, + And lifting a mutinous lid, + To all monarchs and matrons I said I + Would shock them--and did. + + Thee I sang, and thy loves, O Thalassian, + O 'noble and nude and antique!' + Unashamed in the 'fearless old fashion' + Ere washing was done by the week; + When the 'roses and rapture' that girt you + Were visions of delicate vice, + And the 'lilies and languors of virtue' + Not nearly so nice. + + O delights of the time of my teething, + Félise, Fragoletta, Yolande! + Foam-yeast of a youth in its seething + On blasted and blithering sand! + Snake-crowned on your tresses and belted + With blossoms that coil and decay, + Ye are gone; ye are lost; ye are melted + Like ices in May. + + Hushed now is the bibulous bubble + Of 'lithe and lascivious' throats; + Long stript and extinct is the stubble + Of hoary and harvested oats; + From the sweets that are sour as the sorrel's + The bees have abortively swarmed; + And Algernon's earlier morals + Are fairly reformed. + + I have written a loyal Armada, + And posed in a Jubilee pose; + I have babbled of babies and played a + New tune on the turn of their toes; + Washed white from the stain of Astarte, + My books any virgin may buy; + And I hear I am praised by a party + Called Something Mackay! + + When erased are the records, and rotten + The meshes of memory's net; + When the grace that forgives has forgotten + The things that are good to forget; + When the trill of my juvenile trumpet + Is dead and its echoes are dead; + Then the laurel shall lie on the crumpet + And crown of my head! + + +2. + +FOR THE ALBUMS OF CROWNED HEADS ONLY. + +(AFTER SIR E. A.) + +1. _From the third Sa'dine Box of the eighth Gazelle of Ghazal._ + + Yá Yá! Best-Belovéd! I look to thy dimples and drink; + Tiddlihî! to thy cheek-pits and chin-pit, my Tulip, my Pink! + + See my heart rises up like a bubble, and bursts in my throat, + And the dimples that draw it are Three, like the Men in a Boat. + + Thrice Three are the Muses, and I that begat her should guess + That the Tenth is the TELE-EPHEMERA, Pride of the PRESS! + + And the Graces were triplets till lately the fruitful Dîtî + Propagated a Fourth, and the infant was W. G. + + From my post of Propinquity prone on my languorous knees + My tears slither down like the Gum of Arabia's trees. + + "Am I drunk?" Heart-Entangler! By Hafiz, the Blender of Squish! + 'Tis the camel that sits on the prayer-mat is drunk as a fish. + + As I hope for the future Uprising, deny it who can, + Two years I have worn the Blue Ribbon, come next Ramadan! + + Chest-Preserver! thou knowest thine eyes, they alone, are my drink, + Blue-black as the sloes of the Garden or Stephens his Ink. + + On thy sugar-sweet liplets, my Cypress! I browse like a bee, + And am aching, as after a surfeit of Melon, for thee! + + Low laid at thy feet--little feet--in the dust like a worm, + Round the train of thy skirt, O my Peacock, I fitfully squirm. + + By Allah! I swoon, I rotate, I am sickly of hue! + And the Infidel swore that Jam-Jam was a Temperance brew! + + Heart-Punisher! Surely I think it was jalapped with gin! + Aha! Paradise! I am passing! So be it! Amin! + + +2. _From a little thing by the Princess Onono Goawai._ + + The bulbul hummeth like a book + Upon the pooh-pooh tree, + And now and then he takes a look + At you and me, + At me and you. + Kuchi! + Kuchoo! + + +3. _From the Sanskrit of Matabîlîwaijo._ + + Wind! a word with thee! thou goest where my Well-Preservéd lies + On her bed of bonny briers keeping off the wicked flies. + + Thou shalt know her by th' aroma of her bosom, which is musk, + And her ivories that glisten like an elephantine tusk. + + Seek her coral-guarded tympanum and whisper "Poppinjai!" + And (referring to her lover) kindly add "A-lal-lal-lai!" + + Breeze! thou knowest my condition; state it broadly, if you please, + In a smattering of Indo-Turco-Perso-Japanese. + + Say my youth is flitting freely, and before the season goes + From the garden of my Tûtsi I am fain to pluck a rose. + + Tell her I'm a wanton Sufí (what a Sufí really is + She may know, perhaps--I count it one of Allah's mysteries). + + Fly, O blessed Breeze, and hither bring me back the net result; + Fly as flies the rude mosquito from Abdullah's catapult. + + Fly as flies the rusty rickshaw of the Kurumayasan, + When he scents a Hippopotam down the groves of Gulistan. + + Fly and cull, O cull, a section of my Pipkin's purple tress; + Thou shalt find me drinking deeply with the Lords that rule the + Mess; + + Quaffing mead and mighty sodas with the Johnís, Lords of War, + Talking 'jungle in the gun-room,' underneath the deodar. + + Hoo Tawâ! I go to join them; he that cometh late is curst, + For the Lords of War (by Akbar) have a most amazing thirst! + + +3. + +MARSYAS IN HADES. + +(AFTER SIR L. M.) + + Next I saw + A pensive gentleman of middle age, + That leaned against a Druid oak, his pipe + Pendent beneath his chin--a double one-- + (Meaning the pipe); reluctant was his breath, + For he had mingled in the Morris dance + And rested blown; but damsels in their teens, + All decorous and decorously clad, + Their very ankles hardly visible, + Recalled his motions; while, for chaperon, + Good Mrs. Grundy up against the wall + Beamed approbation. + + On his face I read + Signs of high sadness such as poets wear, + Being divinely discontented with + The praise of _jeunes filles_. Even as I looked, + He touched the portion of his pipe reserved + For minor poetry of solemn tone, + Checking the humorous stops intended for + Electioneering posters and the like; + And therewithal he made the following + Addition to his _Songs Unsung_, or else + His _Unremarked Remarks_: + + "Dear Sir," he said, + "Excuse my saying 'Sir' like that; it is + Our way in Hades here among the damned; + For you must know that some of us are damned + Not only by faint praise but full applause + Of simple critics. Take my case. In me + Behold the good knight Marsyas, M.A., + Three times a candidate for Parliament, + And twice retired; a Justice of the Peace; + Master of Arts (I said), and better known + In literary spheres as Master of + The Mediocre-Obvious; and read + By boarding-misses in their myriads. + These dote upon me. Sweetly have I sung + The commonplaces of philosophy + In common parlance. + + You have read perhaps + The Cymric Triads? Poetry, they say, + Excels alone by sheer simplicity + Of language, subject, and invention. Sir! + The excellence of mine lay that way too. + But fate is partial. Heaven's fulgour moulds + 'To happiness some, some to unhappiness!' + (Look you, the harp was Welsh that figured forth + That excellent last line.) I ask you, Sir, + What would you? Ill content with mortal praise, + And haply somewhat overbold, I sought + To be as gods be; sought, in fact, to filch + Apollo's bays! + + Ah me! Dear me! I fain + Would use a stronger phrase, but hardly dare, + Being, whatever else, respectable. + I say I tired of vulgar homage, gift + Of ignorance. 'High failure overleaps + The bounds of low successes' (there, again, + The harp that twanged was Welsh, but with an echo + Of Browning). Godlike it must be, I thought, + To climb the giddy brink; to pen, for instance, + An Ode to the Imperial Institute, + And fall, if bound to, from a decent height. + + I did and missed the laurel; still I go + On writing; what you hear just now is blank, + Distinctly blank, and might be measured by + The kilomètre; yet I rhyme as well + A little; but it takes a lot of time, + And checks the lapse of my pellucid stream + Not all conveniently." + + Thereat he paused, + And wrung the moisture from his pipe; but I, + As one that was intolerably bored, + Took even this occasion to be gone; + And, going, marked him how he took his stile, + Polished the waxen tablets, and began + To make a Royal Pæan _by request_, + Or so he said. + + +4. + +THE RHYME OF THE KIPPERLING. + +(AFTER R. K.) + +[N.B.--No nautical terms or statements guaranteed.] + + Away by the haunts of the Yang-tse-boo, + Where the Yuletide runs cold gin, + And the rollicking sign of the _Lord Knows Who_ + Sees mariners drink like sin; + Where the _Jolly Roger_ tips his quart + To the luck of the _Union Jack_; + And some are screwed on the foreign port, + And some on the starboard tack;-- + Ever they tell the tale anew + Of the chase for the kipperling swag; + How the smack _Tommy This_ and the smack _Tommy That_ + They broached each other like a whiskey-vat, + And the _Fuzzy-Wuz_ took the bag. + + Now this is the law of the herring fleet that harries the northern + main, + Tattooed in scars on the chests of the tars with a brand like the + brand of Cain: + That none may woo the sea-born shrew save such as pay their way + With a kipperling netted at noon of night and cured ere the crack of + day. + + It was the woman Sal o' the Dune, and the men were three to one, + Bill the Skipper and Ned the Nipper and Sam that was Son of a Gun; + Bill was a Skipper and Ned was a Nipper and Sam was the Son of a + Gun, + And the woman was Sal o' the Dune, as I said, and the men were three + to one. + + There was never a light in the sky that night of the soft midsummer + gales, + But the great man-bloaters snorted low, and the young 'uns sang like + whales; + And out laughed Sal (like a dog-toothed wheel was the laugh that Sal + laughed she): + "Now who's for a bride on the shady side of up'ards of forty-three?" + + And Neddy he swore by butt and bend, and Billy by bend and bitt, + And nautical names that no man frames but your amateur nautical + wit; + And Sam said, "Shiver my topping-lifts and scuttle my foc's'le + yarn, + And may I be curst, if I'm not in first with a kipperling slued + astarn!" + + Now the smack _Tommy This_ and the smack _Tommy That_ and the + _Fuzzy-Wuz_ smack, all three, + Their captains bold, they were Bill and Ned and Sam respectivelee. + + And it's writ in the rules that the primary schools of kippers + should get off cheap + For a two mile reach off Foulness beach when the July tide's at + neap; + And the lawless lubbers that lust for loot and filch the yearling + stock + They get smart raps from the coastguard chaps with their blunderbuss + fixed half-cock. + + Now Bill the Skipper and Ned the Nipper could tell green cheese from + blue, + And Bill knew a trick and Ned knew a trick, but Sam knew a trick + worth two. + + So Bill he sneaks a corporal's breeks and a belt of pipeclayed + hide, + And splices them on to the jibsail-boom like a troopship on the + tide. + + And likewise Ned to his masthead he runs a rag of the Queen's, + With a rusty sword and a moke on board to bray like the Horse + Marines. + + But Sam sniffs gore and he keeps off-shore and he waits for things + to stir, + Then he tracks for the deep with a long fog-horn rigged up like a + bowchasér. + + Now scarce had Ned dropped line and lead when he spots the + pipeclayed hide, + And the corporal's breeks on the jibsail-boom like a troopship on + the tide; + And Bill likewise, when he ups and spies the slip of a rag of the + Queen's, + And the rusty sword, and he sniffs aboard the moke of the Horse + Marines. + + So they each luffed sail, and they each turned tail, and they + whipped their wheels like mad, + When the one he said "By the Lord, it's Ned!" and the other, "It's + Bill, by Gad!" + + Then about and about, and nozzle to snout, they rammed through + breach and brace, + And the splinters flew as they mostly do when a Government test + takes place. + + Then up stole Sam with his little ram and the nautical talk flowed + free, + And in good bold type might have covered the two front sheets of the + _P. M. G._ + + But the fog-horn bluff was safe enough, where all was weed and + weft, + And the conger-eels were a-making meals, and the pick of the tackle + left + Was a binnacle-lid and a leak in the bilge and the chip of a cracked + sheerstrake + And the corporal's belt and the moke's cool pelt and a portrait of + Francis Drake. + + So Sam he hauls the dead men's trawls and he booms for the + harbour-bar, + And the splitten fry are salted dry by the blink of the morning + star. + + And Sal o' the Dune was wed next moon by the man that paid his way + With a kipperling netted at noon of night and cured ere the crack of + day; + For such is the law of the herring fleet that bloats on the northern + main, + Tattooed in scars on the chests of the tars with a brand like the + brand of Cain. + + And still in the haunts of the Yang-tse-boo + Ever they tell the tale anew + Of the chase for the kipperling swag; + How the smack _Tommy This_ and the smack _Tommy That_ + They broached each other like a whiskey-vat, + And the _Fuzzy-Wuz_ took the bag. + + +5. + +A BALLAD OF A BUN. + +(AFTER J. D.) + + 'I am sister to the mountains now, + And sister to the sun and moon.' + + 'Heed not belletrist jargon.' + + JOHN DAVIDSON. + + + From Whitsuntide to Whitsuntide-- + That is to say, all through the year-- + Her patient pen was occupied + With songs and tales of pleasant cheer. + + But still her talent went to waste + Like flotsam on an open sea; + She never hit the public taste, + Or knew the knack of Bellettrie. + + Across the sounding City's fogs + There hurtled round her weary head + The thunder of the rolling logs; + "The Critics' Carnival!" she said. + + Immortal prigs took heaven by storm, + Prigs scattered largesses of praise; + The work of both was rather warm; + "This is," she said, "the thing that pays!" + + Sharp envy turned her wine to blood-- + I mean it turned her blood to wine; + And this resolve came like a flood-- + "The cake of knowledge must be mine! + + "I am in Eve's predicament-- + I sha'n't be happy till I've sinned; + Away!" She lightly rose, and sent + Her scruples sailing down the wind. + + She did not tear her open breast, + Nor leave behind a track of gore, + But carried flannel next her chest, + And wore the boots she always wore. + + Across the sounding City's din + She wandered, looking indiscreet, + And ultimately landed in + The neighbourhood of Regent Street. + + She ran against a resolute + Policeman standing like a wall; + She kissed his feet and asked the route + To where they held the Carnival. + + Her strange behaviour caused remark; + They said, "Her reason has been lost;" + Beside her eyes the gas was dark, + But that was owing to the frost. + + A Decadent was dribbling by; + "Lady," he said, "you seem undone; + You need a panacea; try + This sample of the Bodley bun. + + "It is fulfilled of precious spice, + Whereof I give the recipe;-- + Take common dripping, stew in vice, + And serve with vertu; taste and see! + + "And lo! I brand you on the brow + As kin to Nature's lowest germ; + You are sister to the microbe now, + And second-cousin to the worm." + + He gave her of his golden store, + Such hunger hovered in her look; + She took the bun, and asked for more, + And went away and wrote a book. + + To put the matter shortly, she + Became the topic of the town; + In all the lists of Bellettrie + Her name was regularly down. + + "We recognise," the critics wrote, + "Maupassant's verve and Heine's wit;" + Some even made a verbal note + Of Shakespeare being out of it. + + The seasons went and came again; + At length the languid Public cried: + "It is a sorry sort of Lane + That hardly ever turns aside. + + "We want a little change of air; + On that," they said, "we must insist; + We cannot any longer bear + The seedy sex-impressionist." + + Across the sounding City's din + This rumour smote her on the ear: + "The publishers are going in + For songs and tales of pleasant cheer!" + + "Alack!" she said, "I lost the art, + And left my womanhood foredone, + When first I trafficked in the mart + All for a mess of Bodley bun. + + "I cannot cut my kin at will, + Or jilt the protoplastic germ; + I am sister to the microbe still, + And second-cousin to the worm!" + + +6. + +A VIGO-STREET ECLOGUE. + +(AFTER THE SAME) + + Mæcenas. John. George. Arthur. Grant. Richard. + + MÆCENAS. + + What ho! a merry Christmas! Pff! + Sharp blows the frosty blizzard's whff! + Pile on more logs and let them roll, + And pass the humming wassail-bowl! + + JOHN. + + The wassail-bowl! the wind is snell! + Drinc hael! and warm the poet's pell! + + MÆCENAS. + + Richard! say something rustic. + + RICHARD. + + Lo! + The customary mistletoe, + Prehensile on the apple-bough, + Invites the usual kiss. + + GEORGE. + + And now + Cathartic hellebore should be + A cure for imbecility. + + GRANT. + + Now holly-berries have begun + To blush for Women That Have Done. + + ARTHUR. + + The farmer sticks his stuffy goose! + + MÆCENAS. + + Come, come, you grow a little loose; + That's Michaelmas; you must remember + That Michaelmas is in September! + + ARTHUR. + + Northward the swallow sweeps his wing. + + MÆCENAS. + + No, no! the bird arrives in spring! + + ARTHUR. + + Such knowledge fits the country clown; + We've better things to note in town. + What's Nature's lore compared with women's? + + JOHN. + + For this enigma go to S-m-ns; + He is the---- + + ARTHUR. + + Yes, I am, I know, + The devil of a Romeo! + + JOHN. + + Hark! hark! the waits, the precious waits! + Their music beats at Heaven's gates. + + MÆCENAS. + + What Bodley wight will sing a stave + To match their strumming? I would have + The manly bass of Hobbes's voice; + But Unwin's house is Hobbes's choice. + George! you've a baritone at need. + + GEORGE. + + Alas! my famous _Keynotes_ lead + To _Discords_. + + JOHN. + + I've a little thing + _Of Resurrection_. Shall I sing? + + ARTHUR. + + Please do; but _à propos_ of what? + + JOHN. + + I cannot say, unless _de bottes_. + +[_Proceeds to sing a Ballad of Resurrection._ + + A letter-card from my dear love! + O folded page of blessed blue! + She burst her many-buttoned glove, + And ripped the perforation through. + + "My love, to-night, about eleven, + With never a priest or passing-bell, + We die! and meet, with luck, in Heaven, + But anyhow at least in Hell!" + + Her courage very nearly failed, + In fact she swooned along the floor; + But curiosity prevailed, + She came again and read some more. + + "There is no way but this to choose; + My people fain would have us wed; + But you and I have later views, + And scorn the vulgar marriage-bed. + + "Far be it from me to dictate + How best to break the mortal bond, + But personally I may state + That I shall use the village pond. + + "Be punctual, love, and let us meet + For weal or woe! + This line has lost a pair of feet; + The post is now about to go." + + Ay, ay, she thought, to meet were well, + But if we found each other out? + You, say, in Heaven, I in Hell, + Or else the other way about! + + Nay, there be heavy odds, she said, + One fate shall save us both or damn; + We surely shall be bracketed! + She ceased and sent a telegram. + + To Guy le Preux de Balthazar-- + Here followed his address, and then + This pregnant message--"Right you are!" + She wrote it with the office pen. + + She flashed the phrase along the wires, + Then, passing by a dagger-shop, + Bought one and wiped it on her sire's + Best graduated razor-strop. + + On second thoughts, she said, I lean + To poison; true, a knife like this + Looks pretty, rib and rib between, + But people very often miss. + + She sought the chemist in his place; + He sampled her with searching eye; + She looked him frankly in the face, + And told a wicked, wicked lie. + + "My hen," she said,--"a bantam blend-- + Has hatched a poor demented chick; + To ease the gentle creature's end + I want a pint of arsenic." + + The chemist deemed the order large, + But said no thing and drew the drug; + She seized and bore the sacred charge + Before her in a pewter mug. + + At tea she faced her fell intent; + Dressing, she lightly laughed at doom; + Dined with the family, and spent + The evening in the drawing-room. + + At ten the early rooster crowed; + Ten-thirty struck and she was gone; + She crossed alone the naked road; + The road had really nothing on. + + Her golden braids hung down her back; + Within her side she felt a stitch; + And once the moon behind the wrack + Came out and caught her in a ditch. + + Once ere she reached the trysting-pear + She broke the slumber of the rooks; + She wrung her hands, she tore her hair, + And did as people do in books. + + From out her cloak she fetched the drug-- + "Thy health, my love, in Heaven or Hell!" + Deep to the dregs she drained the mug + And dropped it, feeling far from well. + + Upon the punctual stroke her fond + True lover kept the oath he swore; + Plunged softly in the village pond, + But feeling chilly swam ashore. + + Next morning in the judgment-place + Two pallid prisoners were tried; + Their guilt was plain; it was a case + Of ineffective suicide. + + Yestreen a member of the Force + Had found a woman deadly sick, + Lamenting, with sincere remorse, + An overdose of arsenic. + + Another heard upon his beat + One darkly muttering, "This is Hell!" + His weed was wet from head to feet; + He put him in a common cell. + + The Justice chewed the evidence; + His eyes were soft, his lips were bland; + It was, he said, a first offence; + He merely gave a reprimand. + + "Go free, my poppets, keep the laws, + And get ye wed at once," said he; + The court indulged in rude applause; + The usher cleared the gallery. + + The prison-warder, deeply stirred, + Approached the culprits at the bar; + Then haled them forth without a word + Towards the nearest Registrar. + + RICHARD. + + John, you surpass yourself. Next week + Expect a flattering critique! + + JOHN. + + The waits are whining in the cold + With clavicorn and clarigold; + They play them like a crumpled horn, + The clarigold and clavicorn. + + +7. + +AN ODE TO SPRING IN THE METROPOLIS. + +(AFTER R. LE G.) + + Is this the Seine? + And am I altogether wrong + About the brain, + Dreaming I hear the British tongue? + Dear Heaven! what a rhyme! + And yet 'tis all as good + As some that I have fashioned in my time, + Like _bud_ and _wood_; + And on the other hand you couldn't have a more precise or neater + Metre. + + Is this, I ask, the Seine? + And yonder sylvan lane, + Is it the _Bois_? + _Ma foi!_ + _Comme elle est chic_, my Paris, my grisette! + Yet may I not forget + That London still remains the missus + Of this Narcissus. + + No, no! 'tis not the Seine! + It is the artificial mere + That permeates St. James's Park. + The air is bosom-shaped and clear; + And, Himmel! do I hear the lark, + The good old Shelley-Wordsworth lark? + Even now, I prithee, + Hark + Him hammer + On Heaven's harmonious stithy, + Dew-drunken--like my grammar! + + And O the trees! + Beneath their shade the hairless coot + Waddles at ease, + Hushing the magic of his gurgling beak; + Or haply in Tree-worship leans his cheek + Against their blind + And hoary rind, + Observing how the sap + Comes humming upwards from the tap- + Root! + Thrice happy, hairless coot! + + And O the sun! + See, see, he shakes + His big red hands at me in wanton fun! + A glorious image that! it might be Blake's; + As in my critical capacity I took occasion to remark elsewhere, + When heaping praise + On this exceptionally happy phrase, + Although I made it up myself. + But I and Blake, we really constitute a pair, + Each being rather like an artless woodland elf. + + And O the stars! I cannot say + I see a star just now, + Not at this time of day; + But anyhow + The stars are all my brothers; + (This verse is shorter than the others). + + O Constitution Hill! + (This verse is shorter still). + + Ah! London, London in the Spring! + You are, you know you are, + So full of curious sights, + Especially by nights. + From gilded bar to gilded bar + Youth goes his giddy whirl, + His heart fulfilled of Music-Hall, + His arm fulfilled of girl! + I frankly call + That last effect a perfect pearl! + + I know it's + Not given to many poets + To frame so fair a thing + As this of mine, of Spring. + Indeed, the world grows Lilliput + All but + A precious few, the heirs of utter godlihead, + Who wear the yellow flower of blameless bodlihead! + + And they, with Laureates dead, look down + On smaller fry unworthy of the crown, + Mere mushroom men, puff-balls that advertise + And bravely think to brush the skies. + Great is advertisement with little men! + _Moi, qui vous parle, L- G-ll--nn-_, + Have told them so; + I ought to know! + + +8. + +YET. + +(AFTER F. E. W.) + + Sing me a drawing-room song, darling! + Sing by the sunset's glow; + Now while the shadows are long, darling; + Now while the lights are low; + Something so chaste and so coy, darling! + Something that melts the chest; + Milder than even Molloy, darling! + Better than Bingham's best. + + Sing me a drawing-room song, darling! + Sing as you sang of yore, + Lisping of love that is strong, darling! + Strong as a big barn-door; + Let the true knight be bold, darling! + Let him arrive too late; + Stick in a bower of gold, darling! + Stick in a golden gate. + + Sing me a drawing-room song, darling! + Bear on the angels' wings + Children that know no wrong, darling! + Little cherubic things! + Sing of their sunny hair, darling! + Get them to die in June; + Wake, if you can, on the stair, darling! + Echoes of tiny shoon. + + Sing me a drawing-room song, darling! + Sentiment may be false, + Yet it will worry along, darling! + Set to a tum-tum valse; + See that the verses are few, darling! + Keep to the rule of three; + That will be better for you, darling! + Certainly better for me. + + +9. + +ELEGI MUSARUM. + +(AFTER W. W.) + +[To Mr. St. Loe Strachey.] + + Dawn of the year that emerges, a fine and ebullient Phoenix, + Forth from the cinders of Self, out of the ash of the Past; + Year that discovers my Muse in the thick of purpureal sonnets, + Slating diplomacy's sloth, blushing for 'Abdul the d----d'; + Year that in guise of a herald declaring the close of the tourney + Clears the redoubtable lists hot with the Battle of Bays; + Binds on the brows of the Tory, the highly respectable Austin, + Laurels that Phoebus of old wore on the top of his tuft; + + Leaving the locks of the hydra, of Bodley the numerous-headed, + Clean as the chin of a boy, bare as a babe in a bath; + Year that--I see in the vista the principal verb of the sentence + Loom as a deeply-desired bride that is late at the post-- + Year that has painfully tickled the lachrymal nerves of the Muses, + Giving Another the gift due to Respectfully Theirs;-- + _Hinc illæ lacrimæ!_ Ah, reader! I grossly misled you; + See, it was false; there is no principal verb after all! + + His likewise is the anguish, who followed with soft serenading + Me as the tremulous tide tracks the meandering moon; + Climbing as Romeo clomb, peradventure by help of a flower-pot, + Where in her balconied bower lay, inexpressibly coy, + Juliet, not as the others, supinely, insanely erotic, + Pallid and yellow of hue, very degenerate souls, + Rioting round with the rapture of palpitant ichorous ardour, + But an immaculate maid, 'one,' you may say, 'of the best'! + His, I repeat, is the anguish--my journalist, eulogist critic, + Strachey, the generous judge, Saintly unlimited Loe! + + Vainly the stolid _Spectator_, bewildered with fabulous bow-wows, + Sick with a surfeit of dog, ran me for all it was worth! + Vainly--if I may recur to a metaphor drawn from the ocean, + Long (in a figure of speech) tied to the tail of the moon-- + Vainly, O excellent organ! with ample and aqueous unction + Once, as a rule, in a week, 'cleansing the Earth of her stain'; + (Here you will possibly pardon the natural scion of poets, + Proud with humility's pride, spoiling a passage from Keats)-- + Vainly your voice on the ears of impregnable Laureate-makers, + Rang as the sinuous sea rings on a petrified coast; + Vainly your voice with a subtle and slightly indelicate largess, + Broke on an obdurate world hymning the advent of Me; + When from the 'commune of air,' from 'the exquisite fabric of + Silence,' + I, a superior orb, burst into exquisite print! + + What shall we say for your greeting, O good horticultural Alfred! + Royalty's darling and pride, crown of the Salisbury Press? + Now when the negligent Public, in search of a subject for dinner, + Asks for the names of your books, Lord! what a boom there will + be! + Hoarse in Penbryn are the howlings that rise for the hope of the + Cymri; + Over her Algernon's head Putney composes a dirge; + Edwin anathematises politely in various lingos; + Davidson ruminates hard over a _Ballad of Hell_; + Fondly Le Gallienne fancies how pretty the Delphian laurels + Would have appeared on his own hairy and passionate poll; + I, imperturbably careless, untainted of jealousy's jaundice, + Simply regret the profane contumely done to the Muse; + Done to the Muse in the person of Me, her patron, that never + Licked Ministerial lips, dusted the boots of the Court! + Surely I hear through the noisy and nauseous clamour of Carlton + Sobs of the sensitive Nine heave upon Helicon's hump! + + + + +II. TO MR. WILLIAM WATSON. + +[On writing the first instalment of _The Purple East_, a 'fine sonnet +which it is our privilege to publish.'--_Westminster Gazette_, Dec. +16, 1895.] + + + Dear Mr. Watson, we have heard with wonder, + Not all unmingled with a sad regret, + That little penny blast of purple thunder, + You issued in the _Westminster Gazette_; + The Editor describes it as a sonnet; + I wish to make a few remarks upon it. + + _Never, O craven England, nevermore + Prate thou of generous effort, righteous aim!_ + So ran the lines, and left me very sore, + For you may guess my heart was hot with shame: + Even thus early in your ample song + I felt that something must be really wrong. + + But when I learned that our ignoble nation + Lay sleeping like a log, and lay alone, + Propping, according to your information, + _Abdul the Damned on his infernal throne_, + O then I scattered to the wind my fears, + And nearly went and joined the Volunteers. + + But just in time the thought occurred to me + That England commonly commits her course + To men as good at heart as even we + And possibly much richer in resource; + That we had better mind our own affairs + And leave these gentlemen to manage theirs. + + It further seemed a work uncommon light + For one like you, a casual civilian, + To order half a hemisphere to fight + And slaughter one another by the million, + While you yourself, a paper Galahad, + Spilt ink for blood upon a blotting-pad. + + The days are gone when sword and poet's pen + One gallant gifted hand was wont to wield; + When Taillefer in face of Harold's men + Rode foremost on to Senlac's fatal field, + And tossed his sword in air, and sang a spell + Of Roland's battle-song, and, singing, fell. + + The days are gone when troubadours by dozens + Polished their steel and joined the stout crusade, + Strumming, in memory of pretty cousins, + _The Girl I left behind Me_, on parade; + They often used to rattle off a ballad in + The intervals of punishing the Saladin. + + In later times, of course I know there's Byron, + Who by his own report could play the man; + I seem to see him with his Lesbian lyre on, + And brandishing a useful yataghan; + Though never going altogether strong, he + Managed at least to die at Missolonghi. + + No more the trades of lute and lance are linked, + Though doubtless under many martial bonnets + Brave heads there be that harbour the distinct + Belief that they can manufacture sonnets; + But on the other hand a bard is not + Supposed to run the risk of being shot. + + Then since your courage lacks a crucial test, + And politics were never your profession, + Dear Mr. Watson, won't you find it best + To temper valour with a due discretion? + That so, despite the fond _Spectator's_ booming, + Above your brow the bays may yet be blooming. + + + + +III. ENGLAND'S ALFRED ABROAD. + +[M. Alfred Austin, poète-lauréat d'Angleterre, vient d'arriver à +Nice, où il a devancé la Reine. Il était, hier, dans les jardins de +Monte-Carlo. Sera-ce sous notre ciel qu'il écrira son premier +poème?--_Menton-Mondain_.] + + + Wrong? are they wrong? Of course they are, + I venture to reply; + For I bore 'my first' (and, I hope, my worst) + A month or so gone by; + And I can't repeat it under this + Or any other sky. + + What! has the public never heard + In these benighted climes + That nascent note of my Laureate throat, + That fluty fitte of rhymes + Which occupied about a half + A column of the _Times_? + + They little know what they have lost, + Nor what a carnal beano + They might have spent in the thick of Lent + If only Daniel Leno + Had sung them _Jameson's Ride_ and knocked + The Monaco Casino. + + Some day the croupiers' furtive eyes + Will all be wringing wet; + Even the Prince will hardly mince + The language of regret + At entertaining unawares + The famed Alhambra Pet. + + But still not quite incognito + I mark the moving scene, + In a tepid zone where (like my own) + The palms are ever green, + And find myself reported as + A herald of the Queen. + + Here where aloft the heavens are blue, + And blue the seas below, + I roll my eye and fondly try + To get the rhymes to go, + As I pace _The Garden that I love_, + Composing all I know. + + But when my poet-pinions droop, + And all the air is wan, + I enter in to the courts of sin + And put a louis on, + And hold my heart and look again, + And lo! the thing is gone! + + Wrong? is it wrong? To baser crafts + Has England's Alfred pandered, + Who once to the sign of Phoebus' shrine + With awesome gait meandered, + And ever wrote in the cause of right + According to his _Standard_? + + Nay! this is life! to take a turn + On Fortune's captious crust; + To pluck the day in a human way + Like men of common dust; + But O! if England's only bard + Should absolutely bust! + + A laureate never borrows on + His coming quarter's pay; + And I mean to stop or ever I pop + My crown of peerless bay; + So I'll take the next _rapide_ to Nice, + And the 'bus to Cimiez. + + _MENTONE, Feb., 1896._ + + + + +IV. LILITH LIBIFERA. + + + Exhumed from out the inner cirque of Hell + By kind permission of the Evil One, + Behold her devilish presentment, done + By Master Aubrey's weird unearthly spell! + This is that Lady known as Jezebel, + Or Lilith, Eden's woman-scorpion, + Libifera, that is, that takes the bun, + Borgia, Vivien, Cussed Damosel. + + Hers are the bulging lips that fairly break + The pumpkin's heart; and hers the eyes that shame + The wanton ape that culls the cocoa-nuts. + Even such the yellow-bellied toads that slake + Nocturnally their amorous-ardent flame + In the wan waste of weary water-butts. + + + + +V. ARS POSTERA. + +[On an advertisement of _A Comedy of Sighs_.] + + + Mr. Aubrey Beer de Beers, + You're getting quite a high renown; + Your Comedy of Leers, you know, + Is posted all about the town; + This sort of stuff I cannot puff, + As Boston says, it makes me 'tired'; + Your Japanee-Rossetti girl + Is not a thing to be desired. + + Mr. Aubrey Beer de Beers, + New English Art (excuse the chaff) + Is like the Newest Humour style, + It's not a thing at which to laugh; + But all the same, you need not maim + A beauty reared on Nature's rules; + A simple maid _au naturel_ + Is worth a dozen spotted ghouls. + + Mr. Aubrey Beer de Beers, + You put strange phantoms on our walls, + If not so daring as _To-day's_, + Nor quite so Hardy as _St. Paul's_; + Her sidelong eyes, her giddy guise,-- + _Grande Dame Sans Merci_ she may be; + But there is that about her throat + Which I myself don't care to see. + + Mr. Aubrey Beer de Beers, + The Philistines across the way, + They say her lips--well, never mind + Precisely what it is they say; + But I have heard a drastic word + That scarce is fit for dainty ears; + But then their taste is not the kind + Of taste to flatter Beer de Beers. + + Bless me, Aubrey Beer de Beers, + On fair Elysian lawns apart + Burd Helen of the Trojan time + Smiles at the latest mode of Art; + Howe'er it be, it seems to me, + It's not important to be New; + New Art would better Nature's best, + But Nature knows a thing or two. + + Aubrey, Aubrey Beer de Beers, + Are there no models at your gate, + Live, shapely, possible and clean? + Or won't they do to 'decorate'? + Then by all means bestrew your scenes + With half the lotuses that blow, + Pothooks and fishing-lines and things, + But let the human woman go! + + + + +VI. A NEW BLUE BOOK. + +[It was hardly to be supposed that the young decadents who once rioted +... in the _Yellow Book_ would be content to remain in obscurity after +the metamorphosis of that periodical and the consequent exclusion of +themselves. The _Savoy_, we learn, to be edited by Mr. Arthur Symons +and Mr. Aubrey Beardsley, will appear early in December.--_Globe_.] + + + 'The world's great age begins anew,' + Cold virtue's weeds are cast; + Our heads are light, our tales are blue, + And things are moving fast; + And no one any longer quarrels + With anybody else's morals. + + A racier journal stamps its pages + With Beardsleys braver far; + A bolder Editor engages + To shame the morning star, + On _London Nights_, not near so chilly, + Sampling a shadier Piccadilly. + + Satyr and Faun their late repose + Now burst like anything; + New Mænads, turning sprightlier toes, + Enjoy a jauntier fling; + With lustier lips old Pan shall play + Drain-pipes along the sewer's way. + + Priapus, wrongly left for dead, + Is dead no more than Pan; + Silenus rises from his bed + And hiccups like a man; + There's something rather chaste (between us) + About Priapus and Silenus. + + O cease to brew your Bodley pap + Whence all the spice is spent! + The splendour of its primal tap + Was gone when Aubrey went; + Behold that subtle Sphinx prepare + Fresh liquors fit to lift your hair. + + Another Magazine shall rise + And paint the palsied town, + Of humbler hue, of simpler size, + And sold at half a crown; + Please note the pregnant brand--_Savoy_, + And don't confuse with _saveloy_.[*] + + +FOOTNOTES: + + [*] Saveloy, a kind of sausage; French _cervelas_, from its containing + brains.--SKEAT. + + + + +VII. TO A BOY-POET OF THE DECADENCE. + +[Showing curious reversal of epigram--'La nature l'a fait sanglier; la +civilisation l'a réduit à l'état de cochon.'] + + + But my good little man, you have made a mistake + If you really are pleased to suppose + That the Thames is alight with the lyrics you make; + We could all do the same if we chose. + + From Solomon down, we may read, as we run, + Of the ways of a man and a maid; + There is nothing that's new to us under the sun, + And certainly not in the shade. + + The erotic affairs that you fiddle aloud + Are as vulgar as coin of the mint; + And you merely distinguish yourself from the crowd + By the fact that you put 'em in print. + + You're a 'prentice, my boy, in the primitive stage, + And you itch, like a boy, to confess: + When you know a bit more of the arts of the age + You will probably talk a bit less. + + For your dull little vices we don't care a fig, + It is _this_ that we deeply deplore; + You were cast for a common or usual pig, + But you play the invincible bore. + + + + +VIII. TO JULIA IN SHOOTING TOGS + +and a Herrickose vein. + + + Whenas to shoot my Julia goes, + Then, then, (methinks) how bravely shows + That rare arrangement of her clothes! + + So shod as when the Huntress Maid + With thumping buskin bruised the glade, + She moveth, making earth afraid. + + Against the sting of random chaff + Her leathern gaiters circle half + The arduous crescent of her calf. + + Unto th' occasion timely fit, + My love's attire doth show her wit, + And of her legs a little bit. + + Sorely it sticketh in my throat, + She having nowhere to bestow't, + To name the absent petticoat. + + In lieu whereof a wanton pair + Of knickerbockers she doth wear, + Full windy and with space to spare. + + Enlargéd by the bellying breeze, + Lord! how they playfully do ease + The urgent knocking of her knees! + + Lengthways curtailéd to her taste + A tunic circumvents her waist, + And soothly it is passing chaste. + + Upon her head she hath a gear + Even such as wights of ruddy cheer + Do use in stalking of the deer. + + Haply her truant tresses mock + Some coronal of shapelier block, + To wit, the bounding billy-cock. + + Withal she hath a loaded gun, + Whereat the pheasants, as they run, + Do make a fair diversión. + + For very awe, if so she shoots, + My hair upriseth from the roots, + And lo! I tremble in my boots! + + + + +IX. THE LINKS OF LOVE. + + + My heart is like a driver-club, + That heaves the pellet hard and straight, + That carries every let and rub, + The whole performance really great; + My heart is like a bulger-head, + That whiffles on the wily tee, + Because my love has kindly said + She'll halve the round of life with me. + + My heart is also like a cleek, + Resembling most the mashie sort, + That spanks the object, so to speak, + Across the sandy bar to port; + And hers is like a putting-green, + The haven where I boast to be, + For she assures me she is keen + To halve the round of life with me. + + Raise me a bunker, if you can, + That beetles o'er a deadly ditch, + Where any but the bogey-man + Is practically bound to pitch; + Plant me beneath a hedge of thorn, + Or up a figurative tree, + What matter, when my love has sworn + To halve the round of life with me? + + + + +X. SWORDS AND PLOUGHSHARES. + +PART I. PRESTO FURIOSO. + + + Spontaneous Us! + O my Camarados! I have no delicatesse as a diplomat, but I go blind + on Libertad! + Give me the flap-flap of the soaring Eagle's pinions! + Give me the tail of the British lion tied in a knot inextricable, + not to be solved anyhow! + Give me a standing army (I say 'give me,' because just at present we + want one badly, armies being often useful in time of war). + + I see our superb fleet (I take it that we are to have a superb fleet + built almost immediately); + I observe the crews prospectively; they are constituted of various + nationalities, not necessarily American; + I see them sling the slug and chew the plug; + I hear the drum begin to hum; + + Both the above rhymes are purely accidental and contrary to my + principles. + We shall wipe the floor of the mill-pond with the scalps of + able-bodied British tars! + I see Professor Edison about to arrange for us a torpedo-hose on + wheels, likewise an infernal electro-semaphore; + I see Henry Irving dead-sick and declining to play Corporal + Brewster; + Cornell, I yell! I yell Cornell! + + I note the Manhattan boss leaving his dry-goods store and investing + in a small Gatling-gun and a ten-cent banner; + I further note the Identity evolved out of forty-four spacious and + thoughtful States; + I note Canada as shortly to be merged in that Identity; similarly + Van Diemen's Land, Gibraltar and Stratford-on-Avon; + Briefly, I see Creation whipped! + + O ye Colonels! I am with you (I too am a Colonel and on the + pension-list); + I drink to the lot of you; to Colonels Cleveland, Hitt, Vanderbilt, + Chauncey M. Depew, O'Donovan Rossa and the late Colonel + Monroe; + I drink an egg-flip, a morning-caress, an eye-opener, a maiden-bosom, + a vermuth-cocktail, three sherry-cobblers and a gin-sling! + Good old Eagle! + + +PART II. INTERMEZZO DOLOROSO. + +[Allowing time for the fall of American securities to the extent of +some odd hundred millions sterling; also for the Day of Rest.] + + +PART III. ANDANTE AMABILE. + + Who breathed a word of war? + Why, surely we are men and Plymouth brothers! + Pray, what in thunder should we cut each other's + Carotids for? + + Merciful powers forefend! + For we by gold-edged bonds are bound alway, + Besides a lot of things that never pay + A dividend! + + Christmas! we cry thee _Ave_! + At such a time, when hearts with love are filled, + It seems inopportune for us to build + The needful navy. + + In fact in many a church + Uprise the prayer and supplicating psalm + That Heaven would keep our spreading Eagle calm + Upon his perch. + + Goodwill and peace and plenty! + Our leading congregations here agree + To vote for this arrangement, _nemine + Contradicente_. + + Greatly be they extolléd + Who occupied the tabernacle-chair + And put it to the meeting then and there + And passed it solid! + + That print has also played + A useful part that sent an invitation + To Redmond to relieve the situation + (Answer prepaid). + + Say, Sirs, and shall we sever? + And mar the fair exchange of fatted steers, + Chicago pig, and eligible peers? + No! never, never! + + Shall gore be made to flow? + Like kindred Sohrabs shall we knock our Rustums, + And blast our beautiful McKinley customs? + Lord love us! no! + + Then, burst the sundering bar! + Our punctured pockets yearn across the ocean; + Till now we never had the faintest notion + How dear you are! + + O love of other years! + Wall Street, aweary for her broken bliss, + Waits like a loving crocodile to kiss + Again with tears! + + + + +XI. TO THE LORD OF POTSDAM. + +[On sending a certain telegram.] + + + Majestic Monarch! whom the other gods, + For fear of their immediate removal, + Consulting hourly, seek your awful nod's + Approval; + + Lift but your little finger up to strike, + And lo! 'the massy earth is riven' (Shelley), + The habitable globe is shaken like + A jelly. + + By your express permission for the last + Eight years the sun has regularly risen; + And editors, that questioned this, have passed + To prison. + + In Art you simply have to say, "I shall!" + Beethoven's fame is rendered transitory; + And Titian cloys beside your clever all- + -egory. + + We hailed you Admiral: your eagle sight + Foresaw Her Majesty's benign intentions; + A uniform was ready of the right + Dimensions. + + Your wardrobe shines with all the shapes and shades, + That genius can fix in fancy suitings; + For _levées_, false alarums, full parades + And shootings. + + But save the habit marks the man of gore + Your spurs are yet to win, my callow Kaiser! + Of fighting in the field you know no more + Than I, Sir! + + When Grandpapa was thanking God with hymns + For gallant Frenchmen dying in the ditches, + Your nurse had barely braced your little limbs + In breeches. + + And doubtless, where he roosts beside his bock, + The Game Old Bird that played the leading fiddle + Smiles grimly as he hears your perky cock- + -a-diddle. + + Be well advised, my youthful friend, abjure + These tricks that smack of Cleon and the tanners; + And let the Dutch instruct a German Boor + In manners. + + Nor were you meant to solve the nations' knots, + Or be the Earth's Protector, willy-nilly; + You only make yourself and royal Pots- + -dam silly. + + Our racing yachts are not at present dressed + In bravery of bunting to amuse you, + Nor can the licence of an honoured guest + Excuse you. + + But if your words are more than wanton play + And you would like to meet the old sea-rover, + Name any course from Delagoa Bay + To Dover. + + Meanwhile observe a proper reticence; + We ask no more; there never was a rumour + Of asking Hohenzollerns for a sense + Of humour! + + + + +XII. FROM THE LORD OF POTSDAM. + + + We, William, Kaiser, planted on Our throne + By heaven's grace, but chiefly by Our own, + Do deign to speak. Then let the earth be dumb, + And other nations cease their senseless hum! + Seldom, if ever, does a chance arise + For Us to pose before Our people's eyes; + But this is one of them, this natal day + Whereon Our Ancient and Imperial sway, + Which to the battle's death-defying trump + Welded the States in one confounded lump, + (As many tasty meats are blent within + The German sausage's encircling skin) + By Our decree is twenty-five precisely, + And, under Us (and God) still doing nicely. + Therefore ye Princelings, Plenipotentates, + And Representatives of various States, + A cool Imperial pint your Kaiser drains, + Both to Our 'more immediate' domains, + And to Our lands, Our isles beyond the sea, + Our World-embracing Greater Germany! + Let loose the breathings of Our Royal Band, + We give a rouse--_hoch! hoch!_--to HELGOLAND! + +[_Kaiserliche Kapelle_ plays: _O Helgoland! mein Helgoland!_ Air--_Die +Wacht am Rhein_.] + +WILLIAM, KAISER, continues:-- + + There are that languish on this festal day + Damned and impounded for _lèse-majesté_; + We, William, in Our plentitude of grace, + Propose to pardon every hundredth case; + And though their sentence was no more than just + We offer each a copy of Our bust, + With option of a fine; but, be it known, + Whoso again shall deem his life his own, + Or find in Ours the faintest flaw or fleck, + God helping, We will hang him by the neck. + Yea, he shall surely curse his impious star + That dares to question Who or where We are! + Worship your Cæsar, and (C.V.) your God; + Who spares the child may haply spoil the rod. + Many Our uniforms, but We are one, + And one Our empire over which the sun, + Careering on his cloud-compulsive way, + Sets once, but never more than once, a day. + The seas are Ours: world-wide upon the oceans + Our fleet commands the liveliest emotions; + Go where you will, you find Our German manners + Prevailing under other people's banners; + Go where you will, you cannot but remark + The cheap, but never nasty, German clerk; + Observe Our exports; do you ever see + Things made as they are made in Germany? + Always at home on Earth's remotest shores + _E.g._, among Our loved, low-German Boers, + Freely Our folk expectorate, and there + Our German bands inflame the balmy air; + Likewise again Our passionate bassoons + Tickle the niggers of the Cameroons; + Or others over whom Our Eagle flaps + In places not at present on the maps. + One more Imperial pint! your Kaiser drinks + To German intercourse with missing links! + Let loose the breathings of Our Royal Band, + We give--_hoch! hoch!_--Our glorious HINTERLAND! + +[_Kaiserliche Kapelle_ plays: _O Hinterland! mein Hinterland!_ (Air as +before); during which WILLIAM, KAISER, resumes his throne.] + + + + +XIII. 'THE SPACIOUS TIMES.' + +[On Drake's return from his filibustering expedition of 1580 the Queen +went on board his ship at Deptford, and after partaking of a banquet +conferred on him the honour of knighthood, at the same time declaring +herself mightily pleased with all that he had done.] + + + I wish that I had flourished then, + When ruffs and raids were in the fashion, + When Shakespeare's art and Raleigh's pen + Encouraged patriotic passion; + For though I draw my happy breath + Beneath a Queen as good and gracious, + The times of Great Elizabeth + Were more conveniently spacious. + + Large-hearted age of cakes and ale! + When, undeterred by nice conditions, + Good Master Drake would lightly sail + On little privateer commissions; + Careering round with sword and flame + And no pretence of polished manners, + He planted out in England's name + A most refreshing lot of banners. + + Blest era, when the reckless tar, + Elated by a sense of duty, + Feared not to face his country's Bar + But freely helped himself to booty; + Returning home with bulging hold + The Queen would meet him, much excited, + Pronounce him worth his weight in gold + And promptly have the hero knighted. + + No Extra Special, piping hot, + Broke out in unexpected Pyrrhics; + No Poet Laureate on the spot + Composed apologetic lyrics; + Transpiring slowly by-and-by, + The act was voted one of loyalty; + The nation winked the other eye, + And pocketed the usual royalty. + + Ere Reuter yet had found his range, + These trifles done across the ocean + Produced upon the Stock Exchange + No preternatural emotion; + Not yet the Kaiserlich I AM + Made wingéd words and then repented; + He wrote as yet no telegram, + Nor was, in fact, himself invented. + + No Justice Hawkins gauged the fault + Of irresponsible incursions; + The early Hawkins, gallant salt, + Knew well the charm of such diversions; + Men never saw that moving sight + When legal luminaries muster, + And very solemnly indict + A well-conducted filibuster. + + No Member had the hardy nerve + To criticise our depredations + As unadapted to preserve + The perfect comity of nations; + No High Commissioner would doubt + If brigandage was quite judicial; + Indeed we mostly did without + This rather eminent Official. + + No Ministry would care a rap + For theoretic arbitration; + They simply modified the map + To meet the latest annexation; + And so without appeal to law, + Or other needless waste of tissue, + The Lion, where he put his paw, + Remained and propagated issue. + + To-day we wax exceeding fat + On lands our roving fathers raided; + And blush with holy horror at + Their lawless sons who do as they did; + No doubt the age improves a lot, + It grows more honest, more veracious; + But, as I said, the times are not + Quite so conveniently spacious. + + + + +NOTE + + +To the Editors of _The World_ and _The National Observer_, and to the +Proprietors of _Punch_, I wish to express my thanks for their courtesy +in permitting me to republish these verses. + +O. S. + + * * * * * + + + + +The Battle of the Bays. + + _Eighth Edition._ + Price 3s. 6d. _net._ Fcap. 8vo. Price $1.25. + +SOME PRESS OPINIONS. + +"The new 'Rejected Addresses' of Mr. Owen Seaman are quite worthy to +be ranked with the classic volumes of Horace and James.... The thing +is done as well as it could be.... This little volume is _merum +sal_."--_The Spectator_. + +"Mr. Kipling has never been so nimbly caught before, for Mr. Seaman +has the art to reproduce his flute-notes as well as his big drum.... +Several of the miscellaneous pieces are among the very best humourous +poetry of this generation. We have laughed at nothing lately more than +at 'Ars Postera,' at 'A New Blue Book,' at 'To a Boy-Poet of the +Decadence,' and at 'To Julia in Shooting Togs.' But, after all, Mr. +Seaman's masterpiece up to date is certainly 'To the Lord of Potsdam.' +... This will live, or we are greatly mistaken, among the most +effective examples of historical satire-lyric."--_The Saturday +Review_. + +"It is certainly remarkable, in our dearth of great poetry, how good +of its sort the satiric verse of our day is--so good, in fact, that +nothing but the best will serve, and even the best, like Mr. Seaman's, +which in the day when Sir George Trevelyan was a wit would have taken +people's breath away, is apt to be treated as mere journalism.... But +really it is the most characteristic expression of our time, using the +accustomed forms of verse to point the neatest criticisms and the +slyest of epigrams.... Mr. Seaman's humourous imitation of Mr. +Swinburne, Sir Edwin Arnold, Sir Lewis Morris, Mr. Kipling, and the +rest, is in every case very funny."--_St. James's Gazette_. + +"The book abounds in excellent fooling and really wholesome satire, +the ingenuity and felicity of verse and expression giving it likewise +a high artistic value.... Quips and cranks of audacious wit, strokes +of a humour always sane and healthy, waylay the reader incessantly, +and leave him no peace for laughter."--_The Westminster Gazette_. + +"Mr. Seaman must be tired of being compared to Calverley and J. K. S., +but he is of their company, and, what is more, on their level. 'The +Battle of the Bays' ... bristles with points; it is brilliant, ... and +it has that easy conversational flow which is the one absolutely +necessary characteristic of good humourous poetry.... One charm of +writing such as Mr. Seaman's is that it makes us feel quite obliged to +poets whom we have never admired for being so good to parody."--_Pall +Mall Gazette_. + +"Mr. Owen Seaman has a very neat talent for parody.... The 'Ballad of +a Bun' is exceedingly funny, and ought to make even Mr. John Davidson +laugh.... All the imitations are good."--_The Times_. + +"His versatility and bright and ready wit are conspicuous in all his +work. As a parodist he is second to none, not even to Mr. Calverley, +if we may take the word of the reviewers.... Mr. Seaman cracks the +whip with consummate skill, and applies it with such naughty +precision, that even his victims must find it difficult to withhold +their admiration."--_The National Observer_. + + * * * * * + + +_BY THE SAME AUTHOR._ + +Horace at Cambridge + + _New and Revised Edition._ + Price 3s. 6d. _net._ Fcap. 8vo. Price $1.25. + +"To every university man ... this book will be a rare treat. But in +virtue of its humour, its extreme and felicitous dexterity of +workmanship both in rhyme and metre ... it will appeal to a far wider +public."--_Punch_. + +"We very cordially recommend Mr. Seaman's book ... to all who are +likely to care for verse which is not unworthy to be ranked with the +efforts of Calverley the immortal."--_The World_. + +"Mr. Seaman manages his ingenious metres with unfailing skill."--_The +Athenæum_. + +"A genial cynic with a genuine smack of Bon Gaultier."--_St. James's +Gazette_. + +"The humour is bright and spontaneous."--_The Times_. + +"Mr. Seaman's book is never slipshod; it has the neatness, the +precision, the sparkle of its Latin namesake."--_The Spectator_. + + +Tillers of the Sand + + SMITH, ELDER & CO., London. 3s. 6d. + +"In the political sphere Mr. Seaman is at present without a +rival."--_The Globe_. + +"Taken as a whole, we are much mistaken if any better volume of +political verse has made its appearance since the days of the +_Rolliad_ and the _Anti-Jacobin_."--_The World_. + +"The best of the satirists on the other side is Mr. Owen Seaman, who +has touched off some of the weaknesses of the late government with +very happy and caustic humour."--_The Spectator_. + +"Mr. Seaman is own brother to Calverley, and in modern times there has +been nothing so good of its sort as 'Tillers of the Sand.'... Mr. +Seaman proves himself so brilliant a jester that it needs must be he +takes the jester's privilege of offending no one."--_The Speaker_. + +"One of the most accomplished writers of occasional verse +to-day."--_Bookman_. + +"It is all so good that passages are hard to choose."--_Scotsman_. + +"The author's rare quality--a capacity for satirizing one's political +opponents with a wit that leaves no wound."--Mr. JAMES PAYN in _The +Illustrated London News_. + +"Brilliant and inimitable."--_Chicago Daily News_. + + +In Cap and Bells + + _Fifth Edition._ + Price 3s. 6d. _net._ Fcap. 8vo. Price $1.25. + +"Here is no shouting, no banging of the bauble. The form of phrase, +the inflexion of voice, the dancing light of humour, make up the +motley which is the true jester's 'only wear'; and under his flashes +of merriment is a sober, sound philosophy. This, after all, is the +only kind of humour that lasts ... it is easy to appreciate, difficult +to acquire; and Mr. Owen Seaman, having acquired it with all the +felicity of good humour and art, stands practically alone among the +humourists of the hour.... His technical quality seems to strengthen +with every new volume."--Mr. ARTHUR WAUGH in _The St. James' +Gazette_. + +"Clean laughter, and scholarly wit; polished metre, and humorous +phrase--these are to me the essential characteristics for which I am +invariably glad to read Mr. Owen Seaman."--Mr. THEODORE COOK in +_Literature_. + +"The brilliant author of 'Cap and Bells' assumes, before the eyes of a +later generation, the mantle of Crawley, and does the same sort of +work more felicitously still."--_The Speaker_. + +"At the end of the volume Mr. Seaman gives agreeable evidence that, in +the domain of memorial and complimentary verse, he has the knack of +combining felicity of phrase with a wholesome avoidance alike of +adulation and excess. The 'In Memoriam' lines to Lewis Carroll, with +the graceful reference to Sir John Tenniel, are particularly +happy."--_The Spectator_. + +"Calverley had not, or did not show in his verses, Mr. Seaman's +critical acuteness and depth.... As a critic in the form of parody, +Mr. Seaman is without a rival.... Of his serious poems an ode to Queen +Wilhelmina is a very graceful accomplishment of a difficult +task."--Mr. G. S. STREET in _The Pall Mall Magazine_. + +"Mr. Seaman is what we may call a critic of mannerisms, and a very +keen critic to boot. His is a useful, not a merely destructive, +function. He is no wanton debaser of the poetic currency. One might +rather call him a touchstone of true merit in poetry."--_Daily +Chronicle_. + +"A new volume from the pen of Mr. Owen Seaman must needs be welcome. +He is the most accomplished versifier among all our jesters."--_The +Globe_. + +"The parodies in Mr. Seaman's new volume are wonderful examples of +this difficult art; the Stephen Phillips, the Alfred Austin, the +Watts-Dunton, and the George Meredith are faultless."--_Academy_. + +"Mr. Owen Seaman has already made his reputation as, perhaps, the +surest modern poet to make you laugh, and the nature of his new +collection of copies of verse cannot be better described than by +saying that it is well worthy of his hand.... The book is heartsome +and delightful all through."--_The Scotsman_. + +"The present vogue of Mr. Owen Seaman's delightful parodies is very +great."--_Liverpool Courier_. + + +JOHN LANE: The Bodley Head, London & New York. + + * * * * * + + + + +Transcriber Notes + +Typographical inconsistencies have been changed and are listed below. + +Hyphenation standardized and is also listed below. + +Archaic and variable spelling is preserved. + +Author's punctuation style is preserved, including some hyphenated +words that are integral to a poem. + +Passages in italics indicated by _underscores_. + +Passages in bold indicated by =equal signs=. + + +Transcriber Changes + +The following changes were made to the original text: + + Page 22: Was 'bellettrist' ('Heed not =belletrist= jargon.') + + Page 45: Was 'lachrimal' (Year that has painfully tickled the + =lachrymal= nerves of the Muses) + + Page 84: Added semi-colon after 'Pyrrhics' (Broke out in unexpected + =Pyrrhics;=) + + Page 88: Was 'applys' and 'precison' (Mr. Seaman cracks the whip + with consummate skill, and =applies= it with such naughty + =precision=, that even his victims must find it difficult + to withhold their admiration.) + + Page 89: Changed to single quotes (in modern times there has been + nothing so good of its sort as ='Tillers of the Sand.'=) + + Advertisements: Changed to single quotes (the dancing light of + humour, make up the motley which is the true + jester's ='only wear'=; and under his flashes of + merriment is a sober, sound philosophy.) + + Advertisements: Was 'Arthuh' (His technical quality seems to + strengthen with every new volume."--Mr. =ARTHUR= + WAUGH in _The St. James' Gazette_.) + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Battle of the Bays, by Owen Seaman + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE BATTLE OF THE BAYS *** + +***** This file should be named 29515-8.txt or 29515-8.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/2/9/5/1/29515/ + +Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Katherine Ward, and the +Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://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: The Battle of the Bays + +Author: Owen Seaman + +Release Date: July 27, 2009 [EBook #29515] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE BATTLE OF THE BAYS *** + + + + +Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Katherine Ward, and the +Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net + + + + + + +</pre> + + +<div class="center"> +<p class='larger'><b>The Battle of the Bays.</b></p> +<table summary='booklist' class='padtop' style='border:1px solid black; padding:0 1em;'> + +<tr><td align='center'> +<p><i>By the same Author</i></p> +<table summary=''><tr><td> +<div class='poem'><div class='stanza'> +<p>IN CAP AND BELLS</p> +<p>HORACE AT CAMBRIDGE</p> +<p>TILLERS OF THE SAND</p> +</div></div> +</td></tr></table> +</td></tr></table> +<hr class='pb' /> +<h1>THE BATTLE<br /> +OF<br /> +THE BAYS +</h1> +<div class='figtag'> +<a name='linki_1' id='linki_1'></a> +</div> +<div class='figcenter'> +<img src='images/i003.png' alt='' title='' width='201' height='300' /><br /> +</div> +<p class='larger'><b>BY OWEN SEAMAN</b></p> +<p class='padtop'>JOHN LANE<br /> +THE BODLEY HEAD<br /> +LONDON & NEW YORK<br /> +1902</p> +<hr class='pb' /> +<p><i>Copyright in the United States.</i><br /> +<i>All Rights Reserved.</i></p> +<p class='padtop'><i>Eighth Edition</i></p> +</div> +<hr class='pb' /> +<h2>CONTENTS.</h2> +<table border='0' cellpadding='2' cellspacing='0' summary='Contents' style='margin:1em auto;'> +<tr> + <td /> + <td /> + <td valign='top' align='right'><p class="smaller" style='text-align:right;'>PAGE</p></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td valign='top' align='right' style='padding-right:1em;'>I.</td> + <td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'><span class='smcap'>The Battle of the Bays</span></td> + <td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#I_THE_BATTLE_OF_THE_BAYS'>1</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td /> + <td valign='top' align='right' style='padding-right:1em;'><table summary='' cellpadding='2'><tr><td align='right'>1.</td><td align='left'>A Song of Renunciation</td><td align='right' style="width: 5em"><a href="#page_1">1</a></td></tr><tr><td align='right'>2.</td><td align='left'>For the Albums of Crowned Heads Only</td><td align='right' style="width: 5em"><a href="#page_5">5</a></td></tr><tr><td align='right'>3.</td><td align='left'>Marsyas in Hades</td><td align='right' style="width: 5em"><a href="#page_11">11</a></td></tr><tr><td align='right'>4.</td><td align='left'>The Rhyme of the Kipperling</td><td align='right' style="width: 5em"><a href="#page_15">15</a></td></tr><tr><td align='right'>5.</td><td align='left'>A Ballad of a Bun</td><td align='right' style="width: 5em"><a href="#page_22">22</a></td></tr><tr><td align='right'>6.</td><td align='left'>A Vigo-Street Eclogue</td><td align='right' style="width: 5em"><a href="#page_27">27</a></td></tr><tr><td align='right'>7.</td><td align='left'>An Ode to Spring in the Metropolis</td><td align='right' style="width: 5em"><a href="#page_37">37</a></td></tr><tr><td align='right'>8.</td><td align='left'>Yet</td><td align='right' style="width: 5em"><a href="#page_42">42</a></td></tr><tr><td align='right'>9.</td><td align='left'>Elegi Musarum</td><td align='right' style="width: 5em"><a href="#page_44">44</a></td></tr></table></td> + <td /> +</tr> +<tr> + <td valign='top' align='right' style='padding-right:1em;'>II.</td> + <td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'><span class='smcap'>To Mr. William Watson</span></td> + <td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#II_TO_MR_WILLIAM_WATSON'>49</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td valign='top' align='right' style='padding-right:1em;'>III.</td> + <td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'><span class='smcap'>England’s Alfred Abroad</span></td> + <td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#III_ENGLANDS_ALFRED_ABROAD'>53</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td valign='top' align='right' style='padding-right:1em;'>IV.</td> + <td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'><span class='smcap'>Lilith Libifera</span></td> + <td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#IV_LILITH_LIBIFERA'>57</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td valign='top' align='right' style='padding-right:1em;'>V.</td> + <td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'><span class='smcap'>Ars Postera</span></td> + <td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#V_ARS_POSTERA'>58</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td valign='top' align='right' style='padding-right:1em;'>VI.</td> + <td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'><span class='smcap'>A New Blue Book</span></td> + <td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#VI_A_NEW_BLUE_BOOK'>61</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td valign='top' align='right' style='padding-right:1em;'>VII.</td> + <td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'><span class='smcap'>To a Boy-Poet of the Decadence</span></td> + <td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#VII_TO_A_BOYPOET_OF_THE_DECADENCE'>64</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td valign='top' align='right' style='padding-right:1em;'>VIII.</td> + <td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'><span class='smcap'>To Julia in Shooting Togs</span></td> + <td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#VIII_TO_JULIA_IN_SHOOTING_TOGS__AND_A_HERRICKOSE_VEIN'>66</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td valign='top' align='right' style='padding-right:1em;'>IX.</td> + <td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'><span class='smcap'>The Links of Love</span></td> + <td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#IX_THE_LINKS_OF_LOVE'>69</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td valign='top' align='right' style='padding-right:1em;'>X.</td> + <td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'><span class='smcap'>Swords and Ploughshares</span></td> + <td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#X_SWORDS_AND_PLOUGHSHARES_PART_I_PRESTO_FURIOSO'>71</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td valign='top' align='right' style='padding-right:1em;'>XI.</td> + <td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'><span class='smcap'>To the Lord of Potsdam</span></td> + <td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#XI_TO_THE_LORD_OF_POTSDAM'>76</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td valign='top' align='right' style='padding-right:1em;'>XII.</td> + <td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'><span class='smcap'>From the Lord of Potsdam</span></td> + <td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#XII_FROM_THE_LORD_OF_POTSDAM'>80</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td valign='top' align='right' style='padding-right:1em;'>XIII.</td> + <td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'><span class='smcap'>‘The Spacious Times’</span></td> + <td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#XIII_THE_SPACIOUS_TIMES'>83</a></td> +</tr> +</table> +<hr class='toprule' /> +<div class='chsp'> +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_1' name='page_1'></a>1</span> +<a name='I_THE_BATTLE_OF_THE_BAYS' id='I_THE_BATTLE_OF_THE_BAYS'></a> +<h2>I. THE BATTLE OF THE BAYS.</h2> +</div> +<div class='chsp' style='padding-top: 0'> +<a name='A_SONG_OF_RENUNCIATION_AFTER_A_C_S' id='A_SONG_OF_RENUNCIATION_AFTER_A_C_S'></a> +<h3>1.<br /><br />A SONG OF RENUNCIATION.</h3> +<h4>(AFTER A. C. S.)</h4> +</div> +<table summary=''><tr><td> +<div class='poem'><div class='stanza'> +<p>In the days of my season of salad,</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>When the down was as dew on my cheek,</p> +<p>And for French I was bred on the ballad,</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>For Greek on the writers of Greek,––</p> +<p>Then I sang of the rose that is ruddy,</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>Of ‘pleasure that winces and stings,’</p> +<p>Of white women and wine that is bloody,</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>And similar things.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>Of Delight that is dear as Desi-er,</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>And Desire that is dear as Delight;</p> +<p>Of the fangs of the flame that is fi-er,</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>Of the bruises of kisses that bite;</p> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_2' name='page_2'></a>2</span></p> +<p>Of embraces that clasp and that sever,</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>Of blushes that flutter and flee</p> +<p>Round the limbs of Dolores, whoever</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>Dolores may be.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>I sang of false faith that is fleeting</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>As froth of the swallowing seas,</p> +<p>Time’s curse that is fatal as Keating</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>Is fatal to amorous fleas;</p> +<p>Of the wanness of woe that is whelp of</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>The lust that is blind as a bat––</p> +<p>By the help of my Muse and the help of</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>The relative <span class='smcaplc'>THAT</span>.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>Panatheist, bruiser and breaker</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>Of kings and the creatures of kings,</p> +<p>I shouted on Freedom to shake her</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>Feet loose of the fetter that clings;</p> +<p>Far rolling my ravenous red eye,</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>And lifting a mutinous lid,</p> +<p>To all monarchs and matrons I said I</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>Would shock them––and did.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_3' name='page_3'></a>3</span></p> +<p>Thee I sang, and thy loves, O Thalassian,</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>O ‘noble and nude and antique!’</p> +<p>Unashamed in the ‘fearless old fashion’</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>Ere washing was done by the week;</p> +<p>When the ‘roses and rapture’ that girt you</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>Were visions of delicate vice,</p> +<p>And the ‘lilies and languors of virtue’</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>Not nearly so nice.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>O delights of the time of my teething,</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>Félise, Fragoletta, Yolande!</p> +<p>Foam-yeast of a youth in its seething</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>On blasted and blithering sand!</p> +<p>Snake-crowned on your tresses and belted</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>With blossoms that coil and decay,</p> +<p>Ye are gone; ye are lost; ye are melted</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>Like ices in May.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>Hushed now is the bibulous bubble</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>Of ‘lithe and lascivious’ throats;</p> +<p>Long stript and extinct is the stubble</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>Of hoary and harvested oats;</p> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_4' name='page_4'></a>4</span></p> +<p>From the sweets that are sour as the sorrel’s</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>The bees have abortively swarmed;</p> +<p>And Algernon’s earlier morals</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>Are fairly reformed.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>I have written a loyal Armada,</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>And posed in a Jubilee pose;</p> +<p>I have babbled of babies and played a</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>New tune on the turn of their toes;</p> +<p>Washed white from the stain of Astarte,</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>My books any virgin may buy;</p> +<p>And I hear I am praised by a party</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>Called Something Mackay!</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>When erased are the records, and rotten</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>The meshes of memory’s net;</p> +<p>When the grace that forgives has forgotten</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>The things that are good to forget;</p> +<p>When the trill of my juvenile trumpet</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>Is dead and its echoes are dead;</p> +<p>Then the laurel shall lie on the crumpet</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>And crown of my head!</p> +</div></div> +</td></tr></table> +<div class='chsp'> +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_5' name='page_5'></a>5</span> +<a name='FOR_THE_ALBUMS_OF_CROWNED_HEADS_ONLY_AFTER_SIR_E_A' id='FOR_THE_ALBUMS_OF_CROWNED_HEADS_ONLY_AFTER_SIR_E_A'></a> +<h3>2.<br /><br />FOR THE ALBUMS OF CROWNED HEADS ONLY.</h3> +<h4>(AFTER SIR E. A.)</h4> +</div> +<p class='center'>1. <i>From the third Sa’dine Box of the eighth Gazelle +of Ghazal.</i></p> +<table summary=''><tr><td> +<div class='poem'><div class='stanza'> +<p>Yá Yá! Best-Belovéd! I look to thy dimples and drink;</p> +<p>Tiddlihî! to thy cheek-pits and chin-pit, my Tulip, my Pink!</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>See my heart rises up like a bubble, and bursts in my throat,</p> +<p>And the dimples that draw it are Three, like the Men in a Boat.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>Thrice Three are the Muses, and I that begat her should guess</p> +<p>That the Tenth is the <span class='smcap'>Tēle-Ephēmera</span>, Pride of the PRESS!</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_6' name='page_6'></a>6</span></p> +<p>And the Graces were triplets till lately the fruitful Dîtî</p> +<p>Propagated a Fourth, and the infant was W. G.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>From my post of Propinquity prone on my languorous knees</p> +<p>My tears slither down like the Gum of Arabia’s trees.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>“Am I drunk?” Heart-Entangler! By Hafiz, the Blender of Squish!</p> +<p>’Tis the camel that sits on the prayer-mat is drunk as a fish.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>As I hope for the future Uprising, deny it who can,</p> +<p>Two years I have worn the Blue Ribbon, come next Ramadan!</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_7' name='page_7'></a>7</span></p> +<p>Chest-Preserver! thou knowest thine eyes, they alone, are my drink,</p> +<p>Blue-black as the sloes of the Garden or Stephens his Ink.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>On thy sugar-sweet liplets, my Cypress! I browse like a bee,</p> +<p>And am aching, as after a surfeit of Melon, for thee!</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>Low laid at thy feet––little feet––in the dust like a worm,</p> +<p>Round the train of thy skirt, O my Peacock, I fitfully squirm.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>By Allah! I swoon, I rotate, I am sickly of hue!</p> +<p>And the Infidel swore that Jam-Jam was a Temperance brew!</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>Heart-Punisher! Surely I think it was jalapped with gin!</p> +<p>Aha! Paradise! I am passing! So be it! Amin!</p> +</div></div> +</td></tr></table> +<div><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_8' name='page_8'></a>8</span></div> +<p class='center padtop'>2. <i>From a little thing by the Princess Onono Goawaī.</i></p> +<table summary=''><tr><td> +<div class='poem'><div class='stanza'> +<p>The bulbul hummeth like a book</p> +<p><span class='indent4'> </span>Upon the pooh-pooh tree,</p> +<p>And now and then he takes a look</p> +<p><span class='indent4'> </span>At you and me,</p> +<p><span class='indent4'> </span>At me and you.</p> +<p><span class='indent6'> </span>Kuchi!</p> +<p><span class='indent6'> </span>Kuchoo!</p> +</div></div> +</td></tr></table> +<p class='center padtop'>3. <i>From the Sanskrit of Matabîlîwaijo.</i></p> +<table summary=''><tr><td> +<div class='poem'><div class='stanza'> +<p>Wind! a word with thee! thou goest where my Well-Preservéd lies</p> +<p>On her bed of bonny briers keeping off the wicked flies.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>Thou shalt know her by th’ aroma of her bosom, which is musk,</p> +<p>And her ivories that glisten like an elephantine tusk.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_9' name='page_9'></a>9</span></p> +<p>Seek her coral-guarded tympanum and whisper “Poppinjai!”</p> +<p>And (referring to her lover) kindly add “A-lal-lal-lai!”</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>Breeze! thou knowest my condition; state it broadly, if you please,</p> +<p>In a smattering of Indo-Turco-Perso-Japanese.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>Say my youth is flitting freely, and before the season goes</p> +<p>From the garden of my Tûtsi I am fain to pluck a rose.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>Tell her I’m a wanton Sufí (what a Sufí really is</p> +<p>She may know, perhaps––I count it one of Allah’s mysteries).</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>Fly, O blessed Breeze, and hither bring me back the net result;</p> +<p>Fly as flies the rude mosquito from Abdullah’s catapult.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_10' name='page_10'></a>10</span></p> +<p>Fly as flies the rusty rickshaw of the Kurumayasan,</p> +<p>When he scents a Hippopotam down the groves of Gulistan.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>Fly and cull, O cull, a section of my Pipkin’s purple tress;</p> +<p>Thou shalt find me drinking deeply with the Lords that rule the Mess;</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>Quaffing mead and mighty sodas with the Johnís, Lords of War,</p> +<p>Talking ‘jungle in the gun-room,’ underneath the deodar.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>Hoo Tawâ! I go to join them; he that cometh late is curst,</p> +<p>For the Lords of War (by Akbar) have a most amazing thirst!</p> +</div></div> +</td></tr></table> +<div class='chsp'> +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_11' name='page_11'></a>11</span> +<a name='MARSYAS_IN_HADES_AFTER_SIR_L_M' id='MARSYAS_IN_HADES_AFTER_SIR_L_M'></a> +<h3>3.<br /><br />MARSYAS IN HADES.</h3> +<h4>(AFTER SIR L. M.)</h4> +</div> +<table summary=''><tr><td> +<div class='poem'><div class='stanza'> +<p><span class='indent28'> </span>Next I saw</p> +<p>A pensive gentleman of middle age,</p> +<p>That leaned against a Druid oak, his pipe</p> +<p>Pendent beneath his chin––a double one––</p> +<p>(Meaning the pipe); reluctant was his breath,</p> +<p>For he had mingled in the Morris dance</p> +<p>And rested blown; but damsels in their teens,</p> +<p>All decorous and decorously clad,</p> +<p>Their very ankles hardly visible,</p> +<p>Recalled his motions; while, for chaperon,</p> +<p>Good Mrs. Grundy up against the wall</p> +<p>Beamed approbation.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p><span class='indent26'> </span>On his face I read</p> +<p>Signs of high sadness such as poets wear,</p> +<p>Being divinely discontented with</p> +<p>The praise of <i>jeunes filles</i>. Even as I looked,</p> +<p>He touched the portion of his pipe reserved</p> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_12' name='page_12'></a>12</span></p> +<p>For minor poetry of solemn tone,</p> +<p>Checking the humorous stops intended for</p> +<p>Electioneering posters and the like;</p> +<p>And therewithal he made the following</p> +<p>Addition to his <i>Songs Unsung</i>, or else</p> +<p>His <i>Unremarked Remarks</i>:</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p><span class='indent24'> </span>“Dear Sir,” he said,</p> +<p>“Excuse my saying ‘Sir’ like that; it is</p> +<p>Our way in Hades here among the damned;</p> +<p>For you must know that some of us are damned</p> +<p>Not only by faint praise but full applause</p> +<p>Of simple critics. Take my case. In me</p> +<p>Behold the good knight Marsyas, M.A.,</p> +<p>Three times a candidate for Parliament,</p> +<p>And twice retired; a Justice of the Peace;</p> +<p>Master of Arts (I said), and better known</p> +<p>In literary spheres as Master of</p> +<p>The Mediocre-Obvious; and read</p> +<p>By boarding-misses in their myriads.</p> +<p>These dote upon me. Sweetly have I sung</p> +<p>The commonplaces of philosophy</p> +<p>In common parlance.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_13' name='page_13'></a>13</span></p> +<p><span class='indent18'> </span>You have read perhaps</p> +<p>The Cymric Triads? Poetry, they say,</p> +<p>Excels alone by sheer simplicity</p> +<p>Of language, subject, and invention. Sir!</p> +<p>The excellence of mine lay that way too.</p> +<p>But fate is partial. Heaven’s fulgour moulds</p> +<p>‘To happiness some, some to unhappiness!’</p> +<p>(Look you, the harp was Welsh that figured forth</p> +<p>That excellent last line.) I ask you, Sir,</p> +<p>What would you? Ill content with mortal praise,</p> +<p>And haply somewhat overbold, I sought</p> +<p>To be as gods be; sought, in fact, to filch</p> +<p>Apollo’s bays!</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p><span class='indent18'> </span>Ah me! Dear me! I fain</p> +<p>Would use a stronger phrase, but hardly dare,</p> +<p>Being, whatever else, respectable.</p> +<p>I say I tired of vulgar homage, gift</p> +<p>Of ignorance. ‘High failure overleaps</p> +<p>The bounds of low successes’ (there, again,</p> +<p>The harp that twanged was Welsh, but with an echo</p> +<p>Of Browning). Godlike it must be, I thought,</p> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_14' name='page_14'></a>14</span></p> +<p>To climb the giddy brink; to pen, for instance,</p> +<p>An Ode to the Imperial Institute,</p> +<p>And fall, if bound to, from a decent height.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p><span class='indent4'> </span>I did and missed the laurel; still I go</p> +<p>On writing; what you hear just now is blank,</p> +<p>Distinctly blank, and might be measured by</p> +<p>The kilomètre; yet I rhyme as well</p> +<p>A little; but it takes a lot of time,</p> +<p>And checks the lapse of my pellucid stream</p> +<p>Not all conveniently.”</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p><span class='indent24'> </span>Thereat he paused,</p> +<p>And wrung the moisture from his pipe; but I,</p> +<p>As one that was intolerably bored,</p> +<p>Took even this occasion to be gone;</p> +<p>And, going, marked him how he took his stile,</p> +<p>Polished the waxen tablets, and began</p> +<p>To make a Royal Pæan <i>by request</i>,</p> +<p>Or so he said.</p> +</div></div> +</td></tr></table> +<div class='chsp'> +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_15' name='page_15'></a>15</span> +<a name='THE_RHYME_OF_THE_KIPPERLING_AFTER_R_K' id='THE_RHYME_OF_THE_KIPPERLING_AFTER_R_K'></a> +<h3>4.<br /><br />THE RHYME OF THE KIPPERLING.</h3> +<h4>(AFTER R. K.)</h4> +</div> +<p class='center intro'>[N.B.––No nautical terms or statements guaranteed.]</p> +<table summary=''><tr><td> +<div class='poem'><div class='stanza'> +<p>Away by the haunts of the Yang-tse-boo,</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>Where the Yuletide runs cold gin,</p> +<p>And the rollicking sign of the <i>Lord Knows Who</i></p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>Sees mariners drink like sin;</p> +<p>Where the <i>Jolly Roger</i> tips his quart</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>To the luck of the <i>Union Jack</i>;</p> +<p>And some are screwed on the foreign port,</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>And some on the starboard tack;––</p> +<p>Ever they tell the tale anew</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>Of the chase for the kipperling swag;</p> +<p>How the smack <i>Tommy This</i> and the smack <i>Tommy That</i></p> +<p>They broached each other like a whiskey-vat,</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>And the <i>Fuzzy-Wuz</i> took the bag.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_16' name='page_16'></a>16</span></p> +<p>Now this is the law of the herring fleet that harries the northern main,</p> +<p>Tattooed in scars on the chests of the tars with a brand like the brand of Cain:</p> +<p>That none may woo the sea-born shrew save such as pay their way</p> +<p>With a kipperling netted at noon of night and cured ere the crack of day.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>It was the woman Sal o’ the Dune, and the men were three to one,</p> +<p>Bill the Skipper and Ned the Nipper and Sam that was Son of a Gun;</p> +<p>Bill was a Skipper and Ned was a Nipper and Sam was the Son of a Gun,</p> +<p>And the woman was Sal o’ the Dune, as I said, and the men were three to one.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>There was never a light in the sky that night of the soft midsummer gales,</p> +<p>But the great man-bloaters snorted low, and the young ’uns sang like whales;</p> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_17' name='page_17'></a>17</span></p> +<p>And out laughed Sal (like a dog-toothed wheel was the laugh that Sal laughed she):</p> +<p>“Now who’s for a bride on the shady side of up’ards of forty-three?”</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>And Neddy he swore by butt and bend, and Billy by bend and bitt,</p> +<p>And nautical names that no man frames but your amateur nautical wit;</p> +<p>And Sam said, “Shiver my topping-lifts and scuttle my foc’s’le yarn,</p> +<p>And may I be curst, if I’m not in first with a kipperling slued astarn!”</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>Now the smack <i>Tommy This</i> and the smack <i>Tommy That</i> and the <i>Fuzzy-Wuz</i> smack, all three,</p> +<p>Their captains bold, they were Bill and Ned and Sam respectivelee.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>And it’s writ in the rules that the primary schools of kippers should get off cheap</p> +<p>For a two mile reach off Foulness beach when the July tide’s at neap;</p> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_18' name='page_18'></a>18</span></p> +<p>And the lawless lubbers that lust for loot and filch the yearling stock</p> +<p>They get smart raps from the coastguard chaps with their blunderbuss fixed half-cock.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>Now Bill the Skipper and Ned the Nipper could tell green cheese from blue,</p> +<p>And Bill knew a trick and Ned knew a trick, but Sam knew a trick worth two.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>So Bill he sneaks a corporal’s breeks and a belt of pipeclayed hide,</p> +<p>And splices them on to the jibsail-boom like a troopship on the tide.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>And likewise Ned to his masthead he runs a rag of the Queen’s,</p> +<p>With a rusty sword and a moke on board to bray like the Horse Marines.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>But Sam sniffs gore and he keeps off-shore and he waits for things to stir,</p> +<p>Then he tracks for the deep with a long fog-horn rigged up like a bowchasér.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_19' name='page_19'></a>19</span></p> +<p>Now scarce had Ned dropped line and lead when he spots the pipeclayed hide,</p> +<p>And the corporal’s breeks on the jibsail-boom like a troopship on the tide;</p> +<p>And Bill likewise, when he ups and spies the slip of a rag of the Queen’s,</p> +<p>And the rusty sword, and he sniffs aboard the moke of the Horse Marines.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>So they each luffed sail, and they each turned tail, and they whipped their wheels like mad,</p> +<p>When the one he said “By the Lord, it’s Ned!” and the other, “It’s Bill, by Gad!”</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>Then about and about, and nozzle to snout, they rammed through breach and brace,</p> +<p>And the splinters flew as they mostly do when a Government test takes place.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>Then up stole Sam with his little ram and the nautical talk flowed free,</p> +<p>And in good bold type might have covered the two front sheets of the <i>P. M. G.</i></p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_20' name='page_20'></a>20</span></p> +<p>But the fog-horn bluff was safe enough, where all was weed and weft,</p> +<p>And the conger-eels were a-making meals, and the pick of the tackle left</p> +<p>Was a binnacle-lid and a leak in the bilge and the chip of a cracked sheerstrake</p> +<p>And the corporal’s belt and the moke’s cool pelt and a portrait of Francis Drake.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>So Sam he hauls the dead men’s trawls and he booms for the harbour-bar,</p> +<p>And the splitten fry are salted dry by the blink of the morning star.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>And Sal o’ the Dune was wed next moon by the man that paid his way</p> +<p>With a kipperling netted at noon of night and cured ere the crack of day;</p> +<p>For such is the law of the herring fleet that bloats on the northern main,</p> +<p>Tattooed in scars on the chests of the tars with a brand like the brand of Cain.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_21' name='page_21'></a>21</span></p> +<p>And still in the haunts of the Yang-tse-boo</p> +<p>Ever they tell the tale anew</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>Of the chase for the kipperling swag;</p> +<p>How the smack <i>Tommy This</i> and the smack <i>Tommy That</i></p> +<p>They broached each other like a whiskey-vat,</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>And the <i>Fuzzy-Wuz</i> took the bag.</p> +</div></div> +</td></tr></table> +<div class='chsp'> +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_22' name='page_22'></a>22</span> +<a name='A_BALLAD_OF_A_BUN_AFTER_J_D' id='A_BALLAD_OF_A_BUN_AFTER_J_D'></a> +<h3>5.<br /><br />A BALLAD OF A BUN.</h3> +<h4>(AFTER J. D.)</h4> +</div> +<div class="smaller"> +<table summary=''><tr><td> +<div class='poem'><div class='stanza'> +<p>‘I am sister to the mountains now,</p> +<p><span class='indent4'> </span>And sister to the sun and moon.’</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>‘Heed not <a name='TC_1'></a><ins title="Was 'bellettrist'">belletrist</ins> jargon.’</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p class='ralign'><span class='indent4'> </span><span class='smcap'>John Davidson.</span></p> +</div></div> +</td></tr></table> +</div> +<table summary=''><tr><td> +<div class='poem'><div class='stanza'> +<p>From Whitsuntide to Whitsuntide––</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>That is to say, all through the year––</p> +<p>Her patient pen was occupied</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>With songs and tales of pleasant cheer.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>But still her talent went to waste</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>Like flotsam on an open sea;</p> +<p>She never hit the public taste,</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>Or knew the knack of Bellettrie.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>Across the sounding City’s fogs</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>There hurtled round her weary head</p> +<p>The thunder of the rolling logs;</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>“The Critics’ Carnival!” she said.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_23' name='page_23'></a>23</span></p> +<p>Immortal prigs took heaven by storm,</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>Prigs scattered largesses of praise;</p> +<p>The work of both was rather warm;</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>“This is,” she said, “the thing that pays!”</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>Sharp envy turned her wine to blood––</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>I mean it turned her blood to wine;</p> +<p>And this resolve came like a flood––</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>“The cake of knowledge must be mine!</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>“I am in Eve’s predicament––</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>I sha’n’t be happy till I’ve sinned;</p> +<p>Away!” She lightly rose, and sent</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>Her scruples sailing down the wind.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>She did not tear her open breast,</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>Nor leave behind a track of gore,</p> +<p>But carried flannel next her chest,</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>And wore the boots she always wore.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>Across the sounding City’s din</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>She wandered, looking indiscreet,</p> +<p>And ultimately landed in</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>The neighbourhood of Regent Street.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_24' name='page_24'></a>24</span></p> +<p>She ran against a resolute</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>Policeman standing like a wall;</p> +<p>She kissed his feet and asked the route</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>To where they held the Carnival.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>Her strange behaviour caused remark;</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>They said, “Her reason has been lost;”</p> +<p>Beside her eyes the gas was dark,</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>But that was owing to the frost.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>A Decadent was dribbling by;</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>“Lady,” he said, “you seem undone;</p> +<p>You need a panacea; try</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>This sample of the Bodley bun.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>“It is fulfilled of precious spice,</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>Whereof I give the recipe;––</p> +<p>Take common dripping, stew in vice,</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>And serve with vertu; taste and see!</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>“And lo! I brand you on the brow</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>As kin to Nature’s lowest germ;</p> +<p>You are sister to the microbe now,</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>And second-cousin to the worm.”</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_25' name='page_25'></a>25</span></p> +<p>He gave her of his golden store,</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>Such hunger hovered in her look;</p> +<p>She took the bun, and asked for more,</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>And went away and wrote a book.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>To put the matter shortly, she</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>Became the topic of the town;</p> +<p>In all the lists of Bellettrie</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>Her name was regularly down.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>“We recognise,” the critics wrote,</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>“Maupassant’s verve and Heine’s wit;”</p> +<p>Some even made a verbal note</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>Of Shakespeare being out of it.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>The seasons went and came again;</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>At length the languid Public cried:</p> +<p>“It is a sorry sort of Lane</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>That hardly ever turns aside.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>“We want a little change of air;</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>On that,” they said, “we must insist;</p> +<p>We cannot any longer bear</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>The seedy sex-impressionist.”</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_26' name='page_26'></a>26</span></p> +<p>Across the sounding City’s din</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>This rumour smote her on the ear:</p> +<p>“The publishers are going in</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>For songs and tales of pleasant cheer!”</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>“Alack!” she said, “I lost the art,</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>And left my womanhood foredone,</p> +<p>When first I trafficked in the mart</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>All for a mess of Bodley bun.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>“I cannot cut my kin at will,</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>Or jilt the protoplastic germ;</p> +<p>I am sister to the microbe still,</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>And second-cousin to the worm!”</p> +</div></div> +</td></tr></table> +<div class='chsp'> +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_27' name='page_27'></a>27</span> +<a name='A_VIGOSTREET_ECLOGUE_AFTER_THE_SAME' id='A_VIGOSTREET_ECLOGUE_AFTER_THE_SAME'></a> +<h3>6.<br /><br />A VIGO-STREET ECLOGUE.</h3> +<h4>(AFTER THE SAME)</h4> +</div> +<p class='center'> Mæcenas. John. George. Arthur. Grant. Richard.</p> +<hr class='invis' /> +<table summary=''><tr><td> +<div class='poem'><div class='stanza'> +<p class='center'>MÆCENAS.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>What ho! a merry Christmas! Pff!</p> +<p>Sharp blows the frosty blizzard’s whff!</p> +<p>Pile on more logs and let them roll,</p> +<p>And pass the humming wassail-bowl!</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p class='center'>JOHN.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>The wassail-bowl! the wind is snell!</p> +<p>Drinc hael! and warm the poet’s pell!</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p class='center'>MÆCENAS.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>Richard! say something rustic.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p class='center'>RICHARD.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p><span class='indent32'> </span>Lo!</p> +<p>The customary mistletoe,</p> +<p>Prehensile on the apple-bough,</p> +<p>Invites the usual kiss.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_28' name='page_28'></a>28</span></p> +<p class='center'>GEORGE.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p><span class='indent24'> </span>And now</p> +<p>Cathartic hellebore should be</p> +<p>A cure for imbecility.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p class='center'>GRANT.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>Now holly-berries have begun</p> +<p>To blush for Women That Have Done.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p class='center'>ARTHUR.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>The farmer sticks his stuffy goose!</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p class='center'>MÆCENAS.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>Come, come, you grow a little loose;</p> +<p>That’s Michaelmas; you must remember</p> +<p>That Michaelmas is in September!</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p class='center'>ARTHUR.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>Northward the swallow sweeps his wing.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p class='center'>MÆCENAS.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>No, no! the bird arrives in spring!</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_29' name='page_29'></a>29</span></p> +<p class='center'>ARTHUR.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>Such knowledge fits the country clown;</p> +<p>We’ve better things to note in town.</p> +<p>What’s Nature’s lore compared with women’s?</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p class='center'>JOHN.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>For this enigma go to S-m-ns;</p> +<p>He is the–––</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p class='center'>ARTHUR.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p><span class='indent16'> </span>Yes, I am, I know,</p> +<p>The devil of a Romeo!</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p class='center'>JOHN.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>Hark! hark! the waits, the precious waits!</p> +<p>Their music beats at Heaven’s gates.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p class='center'>MÆCENAS.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>What Bodley wight will sing a stave</p> +<p>To match their strumming? I would have</p> +<p>The manly bass of Hobbes’s voice;</p> +<p>But Unwin’s house is Hobbes’s choice.</p> +<p>George! you’ve a baritone at need.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_30' name='page_30'></a>30</span></p> +<p class='center'>GEORGE.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>Alas! my famous <i>Keynotes</i> lead</p> +<p>To <i>Discords</i>.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p class='center'>JOHN.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p><span class='indent14'> </span>I’ve a little thing</p> +<p><i>Of Resurrection</i>. Shall I sing?</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p class='center'>ARTHUR.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>Please do; but <i>à propos</i> of what?</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p class='center'>JOHN.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>I cannot say, unless <i>de bottes</i>.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p class='ralign'><span class='indent6'> </span>[<i>Proceeds to sing a Ballad of Resurrection.</i></p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>A letter-card from my dear love!</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>O folded page of blessed blue!</p> +<p>She burst her many-buttoned glove,</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>And ripped the perforation through.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>“My love, to-night, about eleven,</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>With never a priest or passing-bell,</p> +<p>We die! and meet, with luck, in Heaven,</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>But anyhow at least in Hell!”</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_31' name='page_31'></a>31</span></p> +<p>Her courage very nearly failed,</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>In fact she swooned along the floor;</p> +<p>But curiosity prevailed,</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>She came again and read some more.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>“There is no way but this to choose;</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>My people fain would have us wed;</p> +<p>But you and I have later views,</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>And scorn the vulgar marriage-bed.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>“Far be it from me to dictate</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>How best to break the mortal bond,</p> +<p>But personally I may state</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>That I shall use the village pond.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>“Be punctual, love, and let us meet</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>For weal or woe!</p> +<p>This line has lost a pair of feet;</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>The post is now about to go.”</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>Ay, ay, she thought, to meet were well,</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>But if we found each other out?</p> +<p>You, say, in Heaven, I in Hell,</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>Or else the other way about!</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_32' name='page_32'></a>32</span></p> +<p>Nay, there be heavy odds, she said,</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>One fate shall save us both or damn;</p> +<p>We surely shall be bracketed!</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>She ceased and sent a telegram.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>To Guy le Preux de Balthazar––</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>Here followed his address, and then</p> +<p>This pregnant message––“Right you are!”</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>She wrote it with the office pen.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>She flashed the phrase along the wires,</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>Then, passing by a dagger-shop,</p> +<p>Bought one and wiped it on her sire’s</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>Best graduated razor-strop.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>On second thoughts, she said, I lean</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>To poison; true, a knife like this</p> +<p>Looks pretty, rib and rib between,</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>But people very often miss.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>She sought the chemist in his place;</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>He sampled her with searching eye;</p> +<p>She looked him frankly in the face,</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>And told a wicked, wicked lie.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_33' name='page_33'></a>33</span></p> +<p>“My hen,” she said,––“a bantam blend––</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>Has hatched a poor demented chick;</p> +<p>To ease the gentle creature’s end</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>I want a pint of arsenic.”</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>The chemist deemed the order large,</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>But said no thing and drew the drug;</p> +<p>She seized and bore the sacred charge</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>Before her in a pewter mug.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>At tea she faced her fell intent;</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>Dressing, she lightly laughed at doom;</p> +<p>Dined with the family, and spent</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>The evening in the drawing-room.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>At ten the early rooster crowed;</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>Ten-thirty struck and she was gone;</p> +<p>She crossed alone the naked road;</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>The road had really nothing on.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>Her golden braids hung down her back;</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>Within her side she felt a stitch;</p> +<p>And once the moon behind the wrack</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>Came out and caught her in a ditch.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_34' name='page_34'></a>34</span></p> +<p>Once ere she reached the trysting-pear</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>She broke the slumber of the rooks;</p> +<p>She wrung her hands, she tore her hair,</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>And did as people do in books.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>From out her cloak she fetched the drug––</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>“Thy health, my love, in Heaven or Hell!”</p> +<p>Deep to the dregs she drained the mug</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>And dropped it, feeling far from well.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>Upon the punctual stroke her fond</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>True lover kept the oath he swore;</p> +<p>Plunged softly in the village pond,</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>But feeling chilly swam ashore.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>Next morning in the judgment-place</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>Two pallid prisoners were tried;</p> +<p>Their guilt was plain; it was a case</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>Of ineffective suicide.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>Yestreen a member of the Force</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>Had found a woman deadly sick,</p> +<p>Lamenting, with sincere remorse,</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>An overdose of arsenic.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_35' name='page_35'></a>35</span></p> +<p>Another heard upon his beat</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>One darkly muttering, “This is Hell!”</p> +<p>His weed was wet from head to feet;</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>He put him in a common cell.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>The Justice chewed the evidence;</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>His eyes were soft, his lips were bland;</p> +<p>It was, he said, a first offence;</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>He merely gave a reprimand.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>“Go free, my poppets, keep the laws,</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>And get ye wed at once,” said he;</p> +<p>The court indulged in rude applause;</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>The usher cleared the gallery.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>The prison-warder, deeply stirred,</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>Approached the culprits at the bar;</p> +<p>Then haled them forth without a word</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>Towards the nearest Registrar.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p class='center'>RICHARD.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>John, you surpass yourself. Next week</p> +<p>Expect a flattering critique!</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_36' name='page_36'></a>36</span></p> +<p class='center'>JOHN.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>The waits are whining in the cold</p> +<p>With clavicorn and clarigold;</p> +<p>They play them like a crumpled horn,</p> +<p>The clarigold and clavicorn.</p> +</div></div> +</td></tr></table> +<div class='chsp'> +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_37' name='page_37'></a>37</span> +<a name='AN_ODE_TO_SPRING_IN_THE_METROPOLIS_AFTER_R_LE_G' id='AN_ODE_TO_SPRING_IN_THE_METROPOLIS_AFTER_R_LE_G'></a> +<h3>7.<br /><br />AN ODE TO SPRING IN THE METROPOLIS.</h3> +<h4>(AFTER R. LE G.)</h4> +</div> +<table summary=''><tr><td> +<div class='poem'><div class='stanza'> +<p>Is this the Seine?</p> +<p>And am I altogether wrong</p> +<p>About the brain,</p> +<p>Dreaming I hear the British tongue?</p> +<p>Dear Heaven! what a rhyme!</p> +<p>And yet ’tis all as good</p> +<p>As some that I have fashioned in my time,</p> +<p>Like <i>bud</i> and <i>wood</i>;</p> +<p>And on the other hand you couldn’t have a more precise or neater</p> +<p>Metre.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>Is this, I ask, the Seine?</p> +<p>And yonder sylvan lane,</p> +<p>Is it the <i>Bois</i>?</p> +<p><i>Ma foi!</i></p> +<p><i>Comme elle est chic</i>, my Paris, my grisette!</p> +<p>Yet may I not forget</p> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_38' name='page_38'></a>38</span></p> +<p>That London still remains the missus</p> +<p>Of this Narcissus.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>No, no! ’tis not the Seine!</p> +<p>It is the artificial mere</p> +<p>That permeates St. James’s Park.</p> +<p>The air is bosom-shaped and clear;</p> +<p>And, Himmel! do I hear the lark,</p> +<p>The good old Shelley-Wordsworth lark?</p> +<p>Even now, I prithee,</p> +<p>Hark</p> +<p>Him hammer</p> +<p>On Heaven’s harmonious stithy,</p> +<p>Dew-drunken––like my grammar!</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>And O the trees!</p> +<p>Beneath their shade the hairless coot</p> +<p>Waddles at ease,</p> +<p>Hushing the magic of his gurgling beak;</p> +<p>Or haply in Tree-worship leans his cheek</p> +<p>Against their blind</p> +<p>And hoary rind,</p> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_39' name='page_39'></a>39</span></p> +<p>Observing how the sap</p> +<p>Comes humming upwards from the tap-</p> +<p>Root!</p> +<p>Thrice happy, hairless coot!</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>And O the sun!</p> +<p>See, see, he shakes</p> +<p>His big red hands at me in wanton fun!</p> +<p>A glorious image that! it might be Blake’s;</p> +<p>As in my critical capacity I took occasion to remark elsewhere,</p> +<p>When heaping praise</p> +<p>On this exceptionally happy phrase,</p> +<p>Although I made it up myself.</p> +<p>But I and Blake, we really constitute a pair,</p> +<p>Each being rather like an artless woodland elf.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>And O the stars! I cannot say</p> +<p>I see a star just now,</p> +<p>Not at this time of day;</p> +<p>But anyhow</p> +<p>The stars are all my brothers;</p> +<p>(This verse is shorter than the others).</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_40' name='page_40'></a>40</span></p> +<p>O Constitution Hill!</p> +<p>(This verse is shorter still).</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>Ah! London, London in the Spring!</p> +<p>You are, you know you are,</p> +<p>So full of curious sights,</p> +<p>Especially by nights.</p> +<p>From gilded bar to gilded bar</p> +<p>Youth goes his giddy whirl,</p> +<p>His heart fulfilled of Music-Hall,</p> +<p>His arm fulfilled of girl!</p> +<p>I frankly call</p> +<p>That last effect a perfect pearl!</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>I know it’s</p> +<p>Not given to many poets</p> +<p>To frame so fair a thing</p> +<p>As this of mine, of Spring.</p> +<p>Indeed, the world grows Lilliput</p> +<p>All but</p> +<p>A precious few, the heirs of utter godlihead,</p> +<p>Who wear the yellow flower of blameless bodlihead!</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_41' name='page_41'></a>41</span></p> +<p>And they, with Laureates dead, look down</p> +<p>On smaller fry unworthy of the crown,</p> +<p>Mere mushroom men, puff-balls that advertise</p> +<p>And bravely think to brush the skies.</p> +<p>Great is advertisement with little men!</p> +<p><i>Moi, qui vous parle, L- G-ll--nn-</i>,</p> +<p>Have told them so;</p> +<p>I ought to know!</p> +</div></div> +</td></tr></table> +<div class='chsp'> +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_42' name='page_42'></a>42</span> +<a name='YET_AFTER_F_E_W' id='YET_AFTER_F_E_W'></a> +<h3>8.<br /><br />YET.</h3> +<h4>(AFTER F. E. W.)</h4> +</div> +<table summary=''><tr><td> +<div class='poem'><div class='stanza'> +<p>Sing me a drawing-room song, darling!</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>Sing by the sunset’s glow;</p> +<p>Now while the shadows are long, darling;</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>Now while the lights are low;</p> +<p>Something so chaste and so coy, darling!</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>Something that melts the chest;</p> +<p>Milder than even Molloy, darling!</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>Better than Bingham’s best.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>Sing me a drawing-room song, darling!</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>Sing as you sang of yore,</p> +<p>Lisping of love that is strong, darling!</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>Strong as a big barn-door;</p> +<p>Let the true knight be bold, darling!</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>Let him arrive too late;</p> +<p>Stick in a bower of gold, darling!</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>Stick in a golden gate.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_43' name='page_43'></a>43</span></p> +<p>Sing me a drawing-room song, darling!</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>Bear on the angels’ wings</p> +<p>Children that know no wrong, darling!</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>Little cherubic things!</p> +<p>Sing of their sunny hair, darling!</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>Get them to die in June;</p> +<p>Wake, if you can, on the stair, darling!</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>Echoes of tiny shoon.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>Sing me a drawing-room song, darling!</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>Sentiment may be false,</p> +<p>Yet it will worry along, darling!</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>Set to a tum-tum valse;</p> +<p>See that the verses are few, darling!</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>Keep to the rule of three;</p> +<p>That will be better for you, darling!</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>Certainly better for me.</p> +</div></div> +</td></tr></table> +<div class='chsp'> +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_44' name='page_44'></a>44</span> +<a name='ELEGI_MUSARUM_AFTER_W_W' id='ELEGI_MUSARUM_AFTER_W_W'></a> +<h3>9.<br /><br />ELEGI MUSARUM.</h3> +<h4>(AFTER W. W.)</h4> +</div> +<p class='center intro'>[To Mr. St. Loe Strachey.]</p> +<table summary=''><tr><td> +<div class='poem'><div class='stanza'> +<p>Dawn of the year that emerges, a fine and ebullient Phœnix,</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>Forth from the cinders of Self, out of the ash of the Past;</p> +<p>Year that discovers my Muse in the thick of purpureal sonnets,</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>Slating diplomacy’s sloth, blushing for ‘Abdul the d----d’;</p> +<p>Year that in guise of a herald declaring the close of the tourney</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>Clears the redoubtable lists hot with the Battle of Bays;</p> +<p>Binds on the brows of the Tory, the highly respectable Austin,</p> +<p>Laurels that Phœbus of old wore on the top of his tuft;</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_45' name='page_45'></a>45</span></p> +<p>Leaving the locks of the hydra, of Bodley the numerous-headed,</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>Clean as the chin of a boy, bare as a babe in a bath;</p> +<p>Year that––I see in the vista the principal verb of the sentence</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>Loom as a deeply-desired bride that is late at the post––</p> +<p>Year that has painfully tickled the <a name='TC_2'></a><ins title="Was 'lachrimal'">lachrymal</ins> nerves of the Muses,</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>Giving Another the gift due to Respectfully Theirs;––</p> +<p><i>Hinc illæ lacrimæ!</i> Ah, reader! I grossly misled you;</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>See, it was false; there is no principal verb after all!</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>His likewise is the anguish, who followed with soft serenading</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>Me as the tremulous tide tracks the meandering moon;</p> +<p>Climbing as Romeo clomb, peradventure by help of a flower-pot,</p> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_46' name='page_46'></a>46</span></p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>Where in her balconied bower lay, inexpressibly coy,</p> +<p>Juliet, not as the others, supinely, insanely erotic,</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>Pallid and yellow of hue, very degenerate souls,</p> +<p>Rioting round with the rapture of palpitant ichorous ardour,</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>But an immaculate maid, ‘one,’ you may say, ‘of the best’!</p> +<p>His, I repeat, is the anguish––my journalist, eulogist critic,</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>Strachey, the generous judge, Saintly unlimited Loe!</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>Vainly the stolid <i>Spectator</i>, bewildered with fabulous bow-wows,</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>Sick with a surfeit of dog, ran me for all it was worth!</p> +<p>Vainly––if I may recur to a metaphor drawn from the ocean,</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>Long (in a figure of speech) tied to the tail of the moon––</p> +<p>Vainly, O excellent organ! with ample and aqueous unction</p> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_47' name='page_47'></a>47</span></p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>Once, as a rule, in a week, ‘cleansing the Earth of her stain’;</p> +<p>(Here you will possibly pardon the natural scion of poets,</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>Proud with humility’s pride, spoiling a passage from Keats)––</p> +<p>Vainly your voice on the ears of impregnable Laureate-makers,</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>Rang as the sinuous sea rings on a petrified coast;</p> +<p>Vainly your voice with a subtle and slightly indelicate largess,</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>Broke on an obdurate world hymning the advent of Me;</p> +<p>When from the ‘commune of air,’ from ‘the exquisite fabric of Silence,’</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>I, a superior orb, burst into exquisite print!</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>What shall we say for your greeting, O good horticultural Alfred!</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>Royalty’s darling and pride, crown of the Salisbury Press?</p> +<p>Now when the negligent Public, in search of a subject for dinner,</p> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_48' name='page_48'></a>48</span></p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>Asks for the names of your books, Lord! what a boom there will be!</p> +<p>Hoarse in Penbryn are the howlings that rise for the hope of the Cymri;</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>Over her Algernon’s head Putney composes a dirge;</p> +<p>Edwin anathematises politely in various lingos;</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>Davidson ruminates hard over a <i>Ballad of Hell</i>;</p> +<p>Fondly Le Gallienne fancies how pretty the Delphian laurels</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>Would have appeared on his own hairy and passionate poll;</p> +<p>I, imperturbably careless, untainted of jealousy’s jaundice,</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>Simply regret the profane contumely done to the Muse;</p> +<p>Done to the Muse in the person of Me, her patron, that never</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>Licked Ministerial lips, dusted the boots of the Court!</p> +<p>Surely I hear through the noisy and nauseous clamour of Carlton</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>Sobs of the sensitive Nine heave upon Helicon’s hump!</p> +</div></div> +</td></tr></table> +<hr class='toprule' /> +<div class='chsp'> +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_49' name='page_49'></a>49</span> +<a name='II_TO_MR_WILLIAM_WATSON' id='II_TO_MR_WILLIAM_WATSON'></a> +<h2>II. TO MR. WILLIAM WATSON.</h2> +</div> +<p class='intro'>[On writing the first instalment of <i>The Purple East</i>, a ‘fine +sonnet which it is our privilege to publish.’––<i>Westminster +Gazette</i>, Dec. 16, 1895.]</p> +<table summary=''><tr><td> +<div class='poem'><div class='stanza'> +<p>Dear Mr. Watson, we have heard with wonder,</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>Not all unmingled with a sad regret,</p> +<p>That little penny blast of purple thunder,</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>You issued in the <i>Westminster Gazette</i>;</p> +<p>The Editor describes it as a sonnet;</p> +<p>I wish to make a few remarks upon it.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p><i>Never, O craven England, nevermore</i></p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span><i>Prate thou of generous effort, righteous aim!</i></p> +<p>So ran the lines, and left me very sore,</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>For you may guess my heart was hot with shame:</p> +<p>Even thus early in your ample song</p> +<p>I felt that something must be really wrong.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_50' name='page_50'></a>50</span></p> +<p>But when I learned that our ignoble nation</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>Lay sleeping like a log, and lay alone,</p> +<p>Propping, according to your information,</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span><i>Abdul the Damned on his infernal throne</i>,</p> +<p>O then I scattered to the wind my fears,</p> +<p>And nearly went and joined the Volunteers.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>But just in time the thought occurred to me</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>That England commonly commits her course</p> +<p>To men as good at heart as even we</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>And possibly much richer in resource;</p> +<p>That we had better mind our own affairs</p> +<p>And leave these gentlemen to manage theirs.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>It further seemed a work uncommon light</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>For one like you, a casual civilian,</p> +<p>To order half a hemisphere to fight</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>And slaughter one another by the million,</p> +<p>While you yourself, a paper Galahad,</p> +<p>Spilt ink for blood upon a blotting-pad.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_51' name='page_51'></a>51</span></p> +<p>The days are gone when sword and poet’s pen</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>One gallant gifted hand was wont to wield;</p> +<p>When Taillefer in face of Harold’s men</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>Rode foremost on to Senlac’s fatal field,</p> +<p>And tossed his sword in air, and sang a spell</p> +<p>Of Roland’s battle-song, and, singing, fell.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>The days are gone when troubadours by dozens</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>Polished their steel and joined the stout crusade,</p> +<p>Strumming, in memory of pretty cousins,</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span><i>The Girl I left behind Me</i>, on parade;</p> +<p>They often used to rattle off a ballad in</p> +<p>The intervals of punishing the Saladin.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>In later times, of course I know there’s Byron,</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>Who by his own report could play the man;</p> +<p>I seem to see him with his Lesbian lyre on,</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>And brandishing a useful yataghan;</p> +<p>Though never going altogether strong, he</p> +<p>Managed at least to die at Missolonghi.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_52' name='page_52'></a>52</span></p> +<p>No more the trades of lute and lance are linked,</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>Though doubtless under many martial bonnets</p> +<p>Brave heads there be that harbour the distinct</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>Belief that they can manufacture sonnets;</p> +<p>But on the other hand a bard is not</p> +<p>Supposed to run the risk of being shot.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>Then since your courage lacks a crucial test,</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>And politics were never your profession,</p> +<p>Dear Mr. Watson, won’t you find it best</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>To temper valour with a due discretion?</p> +<p>That so, despite the fond <i>Spectator’s</i> booming,</p> +<p>Above your brow the bays may yet be blooming.</p> +</div></div> +</td></tr></table> +<hr class='toprule' /> +<div class='chsp'> +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_53' name='page_53'></a>53</span> +<a name='III_ENGLANDS_ALFRED_ABROAD' id='III_ENGLANDS_ALFRED_ABROAD'></a> +<h2>III. ENGLAND’S ALFRED ABROAD.</h2> +</div> +<p class='intro'>[M. Alfred Austin, poète-lauréat d’Angleterre, vient d’arriver +à Nice, où il a devancé la Reine. Il était, hier, dans les jardins +de Monte-Carlo. Sera-ce sous notre ciel qu’il écrira son +premier poème?––<i>Menton-Mondain</i>.]</p> +<table summary=''><tr><td> +<div class='poem'><div class='stanza'> +<p>Wrong? are they wrong? Of course they are,</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>I venture to reply;</p> +<p>For I bore ‘my first’ (and, I hope, my worst)</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>A month or so gone by;</p> +<p>And I can’t repeat it under this</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>Or any other sky.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>What! has the public never heard</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>In these benighted climes</p> +<p>That nascent note of my Laureate throat,</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>That fluty fitte of rhymes</p> +<p>Which occupied about a half</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>A column of the <i>Times</i>?</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_54' name='page_54'></a>54</span></p> +<p>They little know what they have lost,</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>Nor what a carnal beano</p> +<p>They might have spent in the thick of Lent</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>If only Daniel Leno</p> +<p>Had sung them <i>Jameson’s Ride</i> and knocked</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>The Monaco Casino.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>Some day the croupiers’ furtive eyes</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>Will all be wringing wet;</p> +<p>Even the Prince will hardly mince</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>The language of regret</p> +<p>At entertaining unawares</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>The famed Alhambra Pet.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>But still not quite incognito</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>I mark the moving scene,</p> +<p>In a tepid zone where (like my own)</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>The palms are ever green,</p> +<p>And find myself reported as</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>A herald of the Queen.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_55' name='page_55'></a>55</span></p> +<p>Here where aloft the heavens are blue,</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>And blue the seas below,</p> +<p>I roll my eye and fondly try</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>To get the rhymes to go,</p> +<p>As I pace <i>The Garden that I love</i>,</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>Composing all I know.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>But when my poet-pinions droop,</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>And all the air is wan,</p> +<p>I enter in to the courts of sin</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>And put a louis on,</p> +<p>And hold my heart and look again,</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>And lo! the thing is gone!</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>Wrong? is it wrong? To baser crafts</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>Has England’s Alfred pandered,</p> +<p>Who once to the sign of Phœbus’ shrine</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>With awesome gait meandered,</p> +<p>And ever wrote in the cause of right</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>According to his <i>Standard</i>?</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_56' name='page_56'></a>56</span></p> +<p>Nay! this is life! to take a turn</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>On Fortune’s captious crust;</p> +<p>To pluck the day in a human way</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>Like men of common dust;</p> +<p>But O! if England’s only bard</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>Should absolutely bust!</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>A laureate never borrows on</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>His coming quarter’s pay;</p> +<p>And I mean to stop or ever I pop</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>My crown of peerless bay;</p> +<p>So I’ll take the next <i>rapide</i> to Nice,</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>And the ’bus to Cimiez.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p><i><span class='smcap'>Mentone</span>, Feb., 1896.</i></p> +</div></div> +</td></tr></table> +<hr class='toprule' /> +<div class='chsp'> +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_57' name='page_57'></a>57</span> +<a name='IV_LILITH_LIBIFERA' id='IV_LILITH_LIBIFERA'></a> +<h2>IV. LILITH LIBIFERA.</h2> +</div> +<table summary=''><tr><td> +<div class='poem'><div class='stanza'> +<p>Exhumed from out the inner cirque of Hell</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>By kind permission of the Evil One,</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>Behold her devilish presentment, done</p> +<p>By Master Aubrey’s weird unearthly spell!</p> +<p>This is that Lady known as Jezebel,</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>Or Lilith, Eden’s woman-scorpion,</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>Libifera, that is, that takes the bun,</p> +<p>Borgia, Vivien, Cussed Damosel.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>Hers are the bulging lips that fairly break</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>The pumpkin’s heart; and hers the eyes that shame</p> +<p><span class='indent4'> </span>The wanton ape that culls the cocoa-nuts.</p> +<p>Even such the yellow-bellied toads that slake</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>Nocturnally their amorous-ardent flame</p> +<p><span class='indent4'> </span>In the wan waste of weary water-butts.</p> +</div></div> +</td></tr></table> +<hr class='toprule' /> +<div class='chsp'> +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_58' name='page_58'></a>58</span> +<a name='V_ARS_POSTERA' id='V_ARS_POSTERA'></a> +<h2>V. ARS POSTERA.</h2> +</div> +<p class='center intro'>[On an advertisement of <i>A Comedy of Sighs</i>.]</p> +<table summary=''><tr><td> +<div class='poem'><div class='stanza'> +<p>Mr. Aubrey Beer de Beers,</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>You’re getting quite a high renown;</p> +<p>Your Comedy of Leers, you know,</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>Is posted all about the town;</p> +<p>This sort of stuff I cannot puff,</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>As Boston says, it makes me ‘tired’;</p> +<p>Your Japanee-Rossetti girl</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>Is not a thing to be desired.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>Mr. Aubrey Beer de Beers,</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>New English Art (excuse the chaff)</p> +<p>Is like the Newest Humour style,</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>It’s not a thing at which to laugh;</p> +<p>But all the same, you need not maim</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>A beauty reared on Nature’s rules;</p> +<p>A simple maid <i>au naturel</i></p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>Is worth a dozen spotted ghouls.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_59' name='page_59'></a>59</span></p> +<p>Mr. Aubrey Beer de Beers,</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>You put strange phantoms on our walls,</p> +<p>If not so daring as <i>To-day’s</i>,</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>Nor quite so Hardy as <i>St. Paul’s</i>;</p> +<p>Her sidelong eyes, her giddy guise,––</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span><i>Grande Dame Sans Merci</i> she may be;</p> +<p>But there is that about her throat</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>Which I myself don’t care to see.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>Mr. Aubrey Beer de Beers,</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>The Philistines across the way,</p> +<p>They say her lips––well, never mind</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>Precisely what it is they say;</p> +<p>But I have heard a drastic word</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>That scarce is fit for dainty ears;</p> +<p>But then their taste is not the kind</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>Of taste to flatter Beer de Beers.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>Bless me, Aubrey Beer de Beers,</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>On fair Elysian lawns apart</p> +<p>Burd Helen of the Trojan time</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>Smiles at the latest mode of Art;</p> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_60' name='page_60'></a>60</span></p> +<p>Howe’er it be, it seems to me,</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>It’s not important to be New;</p> +<p>New Art would better Nature’s best,</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>But Nature knows a thing or two.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>Aubrey, Aubrey Beer de Beers,</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>Are there no models at your gate,</p> +<p>Live, shapely, possible and clean?</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>Or won’t they do to ‘decorate’?</p> +<p>Then by all means bestrew your scenes</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>With half the lotuses that blow,</p> +<p>Pothooks and fishing-lines and things,</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>But let the human woman go!</p> +</div></div> +</td></tr></table> +<hr class='toprule' /> +<div class='chsp'> +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_61' name='page_61'></a>61</span> +<a name='VI_A_NEW_BLUE_BOOK' id='VI_A_NEW_BLUE_BOOK'></a> +<h2>VI. A NEW BLUE BOOK.</h2> +</div> +<p class='intro'>[It was hardly to be supposed that the young decadents +who once rioted ... in the <i>Yellow Book</i> would be content +to remain in obscurity after the metamorphosis of that +periodical and the consequent exclusion of themselves. The +<i>Savoy</i>, we learn, to be edited by Mr. Arthur Symons and Mr. +Aubrey Beardsley, will appear early in December.––<i>Globe</i>.]</p> +<table summary=''><tr><td> +<div class='poem'><div class='stanza'> +<p>‘The world’s great age begins anew,’</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>Cold virtue’s weeds are cast;</p> +<p>Our heads are light, our tales are blue,</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>And things are moving fast;</p> +<p>And no one any longer quarrels</p> +<p>With anybody else’s morals.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>A racier journal stamps its pages</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>With Beardsleys braver far;</p> +<p>A bolder Editor engages</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>To shame the morning star,</p> +<p>On <i>London Nights</i>, not near so chilly,</p> +<p>Sampling a shadier Piccadilly.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_62' name='page_62'></a>62</span></p> +<p>Satyr and Faun their late repose</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>Now burst like anything;</p> +<p>New Mænads, turning sprightlier toes,</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>Enjoy a jauntier fling;</p> +<p>With lustier lips old Pan shall play</p> +<p>Drain-pipes along the sewer’s way.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>Priapus, wrongly left for dead,</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>Is dead no more than Pan;</p> +<p>Silenus rises from his bed</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>And hiccups like a man;</p> +<p>There’s something rather chaste (between us)</p> +<p>About Priapus and Silenus.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>O cease to brew your Bodley pap</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>Whence all the spice is spent!</p> +<p>The splendour of its primal tap</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>Was gone when Aubrey went;</p> +<p>Behold that subtle Sphinx prepare</p> +<p>Fresh liquors fit to lift your hair.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_63' name='page_63'></a>63</span></p> +<p>Another Magazine shall rise</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>And paint the palsied town,</p> +<p>Of humbler hue, of simpler size,</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>And sold at half a crown;</p> +<p>Please note the pregnant brand––<i>Savoy</i>,</p> +<p>And don’t confuse with <i>saveloy</i>.<a name='FNanchor_0001' id='FNanchor_0001'></a><a href='#Footnote_0001' class='fnanchor'>[*]</a></p> +</div></div> +</td></tr></table> +<p>FOOTNOTES:</p> +<div class='footnote'><a name='Footnote_0001' id='Footnote_0001'></a><a href='#FNanchor_0001'><span class='label'>[*]</span></a> +<p>Saveloy, a kind of sausage; French <i>cervelas</i>, from its +containing brains.––<span class='smcap'>Skeat</span>.</p> +</div> +<hr class='toprule' /> +<div class='chsp'> +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_64' name='page_64'></a>64</span> +<a name='VII_TO_A_BOYPOET_OF_THE_DECADENCE' id='VII_TO_A_BOYPOET_OF_THE_DECADENCE'></a> +<h2>VII. TO A BOY-POET OF THE DECADENCE.</h2> +</div> +<p class='intro'>[Showing curious reversal of epigram––‘La nature l’a fait +sanglier; la civilisation l’a réduit à l’état de cochon.’]</p> +<table summary=''><tr><td> +<div class='poem'><div class='stanza'> +<p>But my good little man, you have made a mistake</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>If you really are pleased to suppose</p> +<p>That the Thames is alight with the lyrics you make;</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>We could all do the same if we chose.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>From Solomon down, we may read, as we run,</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>Of the ways of a man and a maid;</p> +<p>There is nothing that’s new to us under the sun,</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>And certainly not in the shade.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>The erotic affairs that you fiddle aloud</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>Are as vulgar as coin of the mint;</p> +<p>And you merely distinguish yourself from the crowd</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>By the fact that you put ’em in print.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_65' name='page_65'></a>65</span></p> +<p>You’re a ’prentice, my boy, in the primitive stage,</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>And you itch, like a boy, to confess:</p> +<p>When you know a bit more of the arts of the age</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>You will probably talk a bit less.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>For your dull little vices we don’t care a fig,</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>It is <i>this</i> that we deeply deplore;</p> +<p>You were cast for a common or usual pig,</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>But you play the invincible bore.</p> +</div></div> +</td></tr></table> +<hr class='toprule' /> +<div class='chsp'> +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_66' name='page_66'></a>66</span> +<a name='VIII_TO_JULIA_IN_SHOOTING_TOGS__AND_A_HERRICKOSE_VEIN' id='VIII_TO_JULIA_IN_SHOOTING_TOGS__AND_A_HERRICKOSE_VEIN'></a> +<h2>VIII. TO JULIA IN SHOOTING TOGS<br /><br /><span class="smaller" style="font-weight: normal;">and a Herrickose vein.</span></h2> +</div> +<table summary=''><tr><td> +<div class='poem'><div class='stanza'> +<p>Whenas to shoot my Julia goes,</p> +<p>Then, then, (methinks) how bravely shows</p> +<p>That rare arrangement of her clothes!</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>So shod as when the Huntress Maid</p> +<p>With thumping buskin bruised the glade,</p> +<p>She moveth, making earth afraid.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>Against the sting of random chaff</p> +<p>Her leathern gaiters circle half</p> +<p>The arduous crescent of her calf.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>Unto th’ occasion timely fit,</p> +<p>My love’s attire doth show her wit,</p> +<p>And of her legs a little bit.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_67' name='page_67'></a>67</span></p> +<p>Sorely it sticketh in my throat,</p> +<p>She having nowhere to bestow’t,</p> +<p>To name the absent petticoat.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>In lieu whereof a wanton pair</p> +<p>Of knickerbockers she doth wear,</p> +<p>Full windy and with space to spare.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>Enlargéd by the bellying breeze,</p> +<p>Lord! how they playfully do ease</p> +<p>The urgent knocking of her knees!</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>Lengthways curtailéd to her taste</p> +<p>A tunic circumvents her waist,</p> +<p>And soothly it is passing chaste.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>Upon her head she hath a gear</p> +<p>Even such as wights of ruddy cheer</p> +<p>Do use in stalking of the deer.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>Haply her truant tresses mock</p> +<p>Some coronal of shapelier block,</p> +<p>To wit, the bounding billy-cock.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_68' name='page_68'></a>68</span></p> +<p>Withal she hath a loaded gun,</p> +<p>Whereat the pheasants, as they run,</p> +<p>Do make a fair diversión.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>For very awe, if so she shoots,</p> +<p>My hair upriseth from the roots,</p> +<p>And lo! I tremble in my boots!</p> +</div></div> +</td></tr></table> +<hr class='toprule' /> +<div class='chsp'> +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_69' name='page_69'></a>69</span> +<a name='IX_THE_LINKS_OF_LOVE' id='IX_THE_LINKS_OF_LOVE'></a> +<h2>IX. THE LINKS OF LOVE.</h2> +</div> +<table summary=''><tr><td> +<div class='poem'><div class='stanza'> +<p>My heart is like a driver-club,</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>That heaves the pellet hard and straight,</p> +<p>That carries every let and rub,</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>The whole performance really great;</p> +<p>My heart is like a bulger-head,</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>That whiffles on the wily tee,</p> +<p>Because my love has kindly said</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>She’ll halve the round of life with me.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>My heart is also like a cleek,</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>Resembling most the mashie sort,</p> +<p>That spanks the object, so to speak,</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>Across the sandy bar to port;</p> +<p>And hers is like a putting-green,</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>The haven where I boast to be,</p> +<p>For she assures me she is keen</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>To halve the round of life with me.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_70' name='page_70'></a>70</span></p> +<p>Raise me a bunker, if you can,</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>That beetles o’er a deadly ditch,</p> +<p>Where any but the bogey-man</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>Is practically bound to pitch;</p> +<p>Plant me beneath a hedge of thorn,</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>Or up a figurative tree,</p> +<p>What matter, when my love has sworn</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>To halve the round of life with me?</p> +</div></div> +</td></tr></table> +<hr class='toprule' /> +<div class='chsp'> +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_71' name='page_71'></a>71</span> +<a name='X_SWORDS_AND_PLOUGHSHARES_PART_I_PRESTO_FURIOSO' id='X_SWORDS_AND_PLOUGHSHARES_PART_I_PRESTO_FURIOSO'></a> +<h2>X. SWORDS AND PLOUGHSHARES.</h2> +<h3><span class='smcap'>Part I. Presto Furioso.</span></h3> +</div> +<table summary=''><tr><td> +<div class='poem'><div class='stanza'> +<p>Spontaneous Us!</p> +<p>O my Camarados! I have no delicatesse as a diplomat, but I go blind on Libertad!</p> +<p>Give me the flap-flap of the soaring Eagle’s pinions!</p> +<p>Give me the tail of the British lion tied in a knot inextricable, not to be solved anyhow!</p> +<p>Give me a standing army (I say ‘give me,’ because just at present we want one badly, armies being often useful in time of war).</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>I see our superb fleet (I take it that we are to have a superb fleet built almost immediately);</p> +<p>I observe the crews prospectively; they are constituted of various nationalities, not necessarily American;</p> +<p>I see them sling the slug and chew the plug;</p> +<p>I hear the drum begin to hum;</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_72' name='page_72'></a>72</span></p> +<p>Both the above rhymes are purely accidental and contrary to my principles.</p> +<p>We shall wipe the floor of the mill-pond with the scalps of able-bodied British tars!</p> +<p>I see Professor Edison about to arrange for us a torpedo-hose on wheels, likewise an infernal electro-semaphore;</p> +<p>I see Henry Irving dead-sick and declining to play Corporal Brewster;</p> +<p>Cornell, I yell! I yell Cornell!</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>I note the Manhattan boss leaving his dry-goods store and investing in a small Gatling-gun and a ten-cent banner;</p> +<p>I further note the Identity evolved out of forty-four spacious and thoughtful States;</p> +<p>I note Canada as shortly to be merged in that Identity; similarly Van Diemen’s Land, Gibraltar and Stratford-on-Avon;</p> +<p>Briefly, I see Creation whipped!</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>O ye Colonels! I am with you (I too am a Colonel and on the pension-list);</p> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_73' name='page_73'></a>73</span></p> +<p>I drink to the lot of you; to Colonels Cleveland, Hitt, Vanderbilt, Chauncey M. Depew, O’Donovan Rossa and the late Colonel Monroe;</p> +<p>I drink an egg-flip, a morning-caress, an eye-opener, a maiden-bosom, a vermuth-cocktail, three sherry-cobblers and a gin-sling!</p> +<p>Good old Eagle!</p> +</div></div> +</td></tr></table> +<div class='chsp'> +<a name='PART_II_INTERMEZZO_DOLOROSO' id='PART_II_INTERMEZZO_DOLOROSO'></a> +<h3><span class='smcap'>Part II. Intermezzo Doloroso.</span></h3> +</div> +<p class='intro'>[Allowing time for the fall of American securities to the +extent of some odd hundred millions sterling; also for the +Day of Rest.]</p> +<hr class='invis' /> +<div class='chsp'> +<a name='PART_III_ANDANTE_AMABILE' id='PART_III_ANDANTE_AMABILE'></a> +<h3><span class='smcap'>Part III. Andante Amabile.</span></h3> +</div> +<table summary=''><tr><td> +<div class='poem'><div class='stanza'> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>Who breathed a word of war?</p> +<p>Why, surely we are men and Plymouth brothers!</p> +<p>Pray, what in thunder should we cut each other’s</p> +<p><span class='indent6'> </span>Carotids for?</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>Merciful powers forefend!</p> +<p>For we by gold-edged bonds are bound alway,</p> +<p>Besides a lot of things that never pay</p> +<p><span class='indent6'> </span>A dividend!</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_74' name='page_74'></a>74</span></p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>Christmas! we cry thee <i>Ave</i>!</p> +<p>At such a time, when hearts with love are filled,</p> +<p>It seems inopportune for us to build</p> +<p><span class='indent6'> </span>The needful navy.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>In fact in many a church</p> +<p>Uprise the prayer and supplicating psalm</p> +<p>That Heaven would keep our spreading Eagle calm</p> +<p><span class='indent6'> </span>Upon his perch.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>Goodwill and peace and plenty!</p> +<p>Our leading congregations here agree</p> +<p>To vote for this arrangement, <i>nemine</i></p> +<p><span class='indent6'> </span><i>Contradicente</i>.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>Greatly be they extolléd</p> +<p>Who occupied the tabernacle-chair</p> +<p>And put it to the meeting then and there</p> +<p><span class='indent6'> </span>And passed it solid!</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>That print has also played</p> +<p>A useful part that sent an invitation</p> +<p>To Redmond to relieve the situation</p> +<p><span class='indent6'> </span>(Answer prepaid).</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_75' name='page_75'></a>75</span></p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>Say, Sirs, and shall we sever?</p> +<p>And mar the fair exchange of fatted steers,</p> +<p>Chicago pig, and eligible peers?</p> +<p><span class='indent6'> </span>No! never, never!</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>Shall gore be made to flow?</p> +<p>Like kindred Sohrabs shall we knock our Rustums,</p> +<p>And blast our beautiful McKinley customs?</p> +<p><span class='indent6'> </span>Lord love us! no!</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>Then, burst the sundering bar!</p> +<p>Our punctured pockets yearn across the ocean;</p> +<p>Till now we never had the faintest notion</p> +<p><span class='indent6'> </span>How dear you are!</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>O love of other years!</p> +<p>Wall Street, aweary for her broken bliss,</p> +<p>Waits like a loving crocodile to kiss</p> +<p><span class='indent6'> </span>Again with tears!</p> +</div></div> +</td></tr></table> +<hr class='toprule' /> +<div class='chsp'> +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_76' name='page_76'></a>76</span> +<a name='XI_TO_THE_LORD_OF_POTSDAM' id='XI_TO_THE_LORD_OF_POTSDAM'></a> +<h2>XI. TO THE LORD OF POTSDAM.</h2> +</div> +<p class='center intro'>[On sending a certain telegram.]</p> +<table summary=''><tr><td> +<div class='poem'><div class='stanza'> +<p>Majestic Monarch! whom the other gods,</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>For fear of their immediate removal,</p> +<p>Consulting hourly, seek your awful nod’s</p> +<p><span class='indent6'> </span>Approval;</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>Lift but your little finger up to strike,</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>And lo! ‘the massy earth is riven’ (Shelley),</p> +<p>The habitable globe is shaken like</p> +<p><span class='indent6'> </span>A jelly.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>By your express permission for the last</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>Eight years the sun has regularly risen;</p> +<p>And editors, that questioned this, have passed</p> +<p><span class='indent6'> </span>To prison.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>In Art you simply have to say, “I shall!”</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>Beethoven’s fame is rendered transitory;</p> +<p>And Titian cloys beside your clever all-</p> +<p><span class='indent6'> </span>-egory.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_77' name='page_77'></a>77</span></p> +<p>We hailed you Admiral: your eagle sight</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>Foresaw Her Majesty’s benign intentions;</p> +<p>A uniform was ready of the right</p> +<p><span class='indent6'> </span>Dimensions.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>Your wardrobe shines with all the shapes and shades,</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>That genius can fix in fancy suitings;</p> +<p>For <i>levées</i>, false alarums, full parades</p> +<p><span class='indent6'> </span>And shootings.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>But save the habit marks the man of gore</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>Your spurs are yet to win, my callow Kaiser!</p> +<p>Of fighting in the field you know no more</p> +<p><span class='indent6'> </span>Than I, Sir!</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>When Grandpapa was thanking God with hymns</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>For gallant Frenchmen dying in the ditches,</p> +<p>Your nurse had barely braced your little limbs</p> +<p><span class='indent6'> </span>In breeches.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_78' name='page_78'></a>78</span></p> +<p>And doubtless, where he roosts beside his bock,</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>The Game Old Bird that played the leading fiddle</p> +<p>Smiles grimly as he hears your perky cock-</p> +<p><span class='indent6'> </span>-a-diddle.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>Be well advised, my youthful friend, abjure</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>These tricks that smack of Cleon and the tanners;</p> +<p>And let the Dutch instruct a German Boor</p> +<p><span class='indent6'> </span>In manners.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>Nor were you meant to solve the nations’ knots,</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>Or be the Earth’s Protector, willy-nilly;</p> +<p>You only make yourself and royal Pots-</p> +<p><span class='indent6'> </span>-dam silly.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>Our racing yachts are not at present dressed</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>In bravery of bunting to amuse you,</p> +<p>Nor can the licence of an honoured guest</p> +<p><span class='indent6'> </span>Excuse you.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_79' name='page_79'></a>79</span></p> +<p>But if your words are more than wanton play</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>And you would like to meet the old sea-rover,</p> +<p>Name any course from Delagoa Bay</p> +<p><span class='indent6'> </span>To Dover.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>Meanwhile observe a proper reticence;</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>We ask no more; there never was a rumour</p> +<p>Of asking Hohenzollerns for a sense</p> +<p><span class='indent6'> </span>Of humour!</p> +</div></div> +</td></tr></table> +<hr class='toprule' /> +<div class='chsp'> +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_80' name='page_80'></a>80</span> +<a name='XII_FROM_THE_LORD_OF_POTSDAM' id='XII_FROM_THE_LORD_OF_POTSDAM'></a> +<h2>XII. FROM THE LORD OF POTSDAM.</h2> +</div> +<table summary=''><tr><td> +<div class='poem'><div class='stanza'> +<p>We, William, Kaiser, planted on Our throne</p> +<p>By heaven’s grace, but chiefly by Our own,</p> +<p>Do deign to speak. Then let the earth be dumb,</p> +<p>And other nations cease their senseless hum!</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>Seldom, if ever, does a chance arise</p> +<p>For Us to pose before Our people’s eyes;</p> +<p>But this is one of them, this natal day</p> +<p>Whereon Our Ancient and Imperial sway,</p> +<p>Which to the battle’s death-defying trump</p> +<p>Welded the States in one confounded lump,</p> +<p>(As many tasty meats are blent within</p> +<p>The German sausage’s encircling skin)</p> +<p>By Our decree is twenty-five precisely,</p> +<p>And, under Us (and God) still doing nicely.</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>Therefore ye Princelings, Plenipotentates,</p> +<p>And Representatives of various States,</p> +<p>A cool Imperial pint your Kaiser drains,</p> +<p>Both to Our ‘more immediate’ domains,</p> +<p>And to Our lands, Our isles beyond the sea,</p> +<p>Our World-embracing Greater Germany!</p> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_81' name='page_81'></a>81</span></p> +<p>Let loose the breathings of Our Royal Band,</p> +<p>We give a rouse––<i>hoch! hoch!</i>––to <span class='smcap'>Helgoland</span>!</p> +</div></div> +</td></tr></table> +<p class='intro'>[<i>Kaiserliche Kapelle</i> plays: <i>O Helgoland! mein +Helgoland!</i> Air––<i>Die Wacht am Rhein</i>.]</p> +<p class='center'><span class='smcap'>William, Kaiser</span>, continues:––</p> +<table summary=''><tr><td> +<div class='poem'><div class='stanza'> +<p>There are that languish on this festal day</p> +<p>Damned and impounded for <i>lèse-majesté</i>;</p> +<p>We, William, in Our plentitude of grace,</p> +<p>Propose to pardon every hundredth case;</p> +<p>And though their sentence was no more than just</p> +<p>We offer each a copy of Our bust,</p> +<p>With option of a fine; but, be it known,</p> +<p>Whoso again shall deem his life his own,</p> +<p>Or find in Ours the faintest flaw or fleck,</p> +<p>God helping, We will hang him by the neck.</p> +<p>Yea, he shall surely curse his impious star</p> +<p>That dares to question Who or where We are!</p> +<p>Worship your Cæsar, and (C.V.) your God;</p> +<p>Who spares the child may haply spoil the rod.</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>Many Our uniforms, but We are one,</p> +<p>And one Our empire over which the sun,</p> +<p>Careering on his cloud-compulsive way,</p> +<p>Sets once, but never more than once, a day.</p> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_82' name='page_82'></a>82</span></p> +<p>The seas are Ours: world-wide upon the oceans</p> +<p>Our fleet commands the liveliest emotions;</p> +<p>Go where you will, you find Our German manners</p> +<p>Prevailing under other people’s banners;</p> +<p>Go where you will, you cannot but remark</p> +<p>The cheap, but never nasty, German clerk;</p> +<p>Observe Our exports; do you ever see</p> +<p>Things made as they are made in Germany?</p> +<p>Always at home on Earth’s remotest shores</p> +<p><i>E.g.</i>, among Our loved, low-German Boers,</p> +<p>Freely Our folk expectorate, and there</p> +<p>Our German bands inflame the balmy air;</p> +<p>Likewise again Our passionate bassoons</p> +<p>Tickle the niggers of the Cameroons;</p> +<p>Or others over whom Our Eagle flaps</p> +<p>In places not at present on the maps.</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>One more Imperial pint! your Kaiser drinks</p> +<p>To German intercourse with missing links!</p> +<p>Let loose the breathings of Our Royal Band,</p> +<p>We give––<i>hoch! hoch!</i>––Our glorious <span class='smcap'>Hinterland</span>!</p> +</div></div> +</td></tr></table> +<p class='intro'>[<i>Kaiserliche Kapelle</i> plays: <i>O Hinterland! mein +Hinterland!</i> (Air as before); during which +<span class='smcap'>William, Kaiser</span>, resumes his throne.]</p> +<hr class='toprule' /> +<div class='chsp'> +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_83' name='page_83'></a>83</span> +<a name='XIII_THE_SPACIOUS_TIMES' id='XIII_THE_SPACIOUS_TIMES'></a> +<h2>XIII. ‘THE SPACIOUS TIMES.’</h2> +</div> +<p class='intro'>[On Drake’s return from his filibustering expedition of 1580 +the Queen went on board his ship at Deptford, and after partaking +of a banquet conferred on him the honour of knighthood, +at the same time declaring herself mightily pleased with +all that he had done.]</p> +<table summary=''><tr><td> +<div class='poem'><div class='stanza'> +<p>I wish that I had flourished then,</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>When ruffs and raids were in the fashion,</p> +<p>When Shakespeare’s art and Raleigh’s pen</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>Encouraged patriotic passion;</p> +<p>For though I draw my happy breath</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>Beneath a Queen as good and gracious,</p> +<p>The times of Great Elizabeth</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>Were more conveniently spacious.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>Large-hearted age of cakes and ale!</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>When, undeterred by nice conditions,</p> +<p>Good Master Drake would lightly sail</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>On little privateer commissions;</p> +<p>Careering round with sword and flame</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>And no pretence of polished manners,</p> +<p>He planted out in England’s name</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>A most refreshing lot of banners.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_84' name='page_84'></a>84</span></p> +<p>Blest era, when the reckless tar,</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>Elated by a sense of duty,</p> +<p>Feared not to face his country’s Bar</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>But freely helped himself to booty;</p> +<p>Returning home with bulging hold</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>The Queen would meet him, much excited,</p> +<p>Pronounce him worth his weight in gold</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>And promptly have the hero knighted.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>No Extra Special, piping hot,</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>Broke out in unexpected <a name='TC_3'></a><ins title="Added semi-colon after 'Pyrrhics'">Pyrrhics;</ins></p> +<p>No Poet Laureate on the spot</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>Composed apologetic lyrics;</p> +<p>Transpiring slowly by-and-by,</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>The act was voted one of loyalty;</p> +<p>The nation winked the other eye,</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>And pocketed the usual royalty.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>Ere Reuter yet had found his range,</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>These trifles done across the ocean</p> +<p>Produced upon the Stock Exchange</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>No preternatural emotion;</p> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_85' name='page_85'></a>85</span></p> +<p>Not yet the Kaiserlich I AM</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>Made wingéd words and then repented;</p> +<p>He wrote as yet no telegram,</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>Nor was, in fact, himself invented.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>No Justice Hawkins gauged the fault</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>Of irresponsible incursions;</p> +<p>The early Hawkins, gallant salt,</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>Knew well the charm of such diversions;</p> +<p>Men never saw that moving sight</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>When legal luminaries muster,</p> +<p>And very solemnly indict</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>A well-conducted filibuster.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>No Member had the hardy nerve</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>To criticise our depredations</p> +<p>As unadapted to preserve</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>The perfect comity of nations;</p> +<p>No High Commissioner would doubt</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>If brigandage was quite judicial;</p> +<p>Indeed we mostly did without</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>This rather eminent Official.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_86' name='page_86'></a>86</span></p> +<p>No Ministry would care a rap</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>For theoretic arbitration;</p> +<p>They simply modified the map</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>To meet the latest annexation;</p> +<p>And so without appeal to law,</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>Or other needless waste of tissue,</p> +<p>The Lion, where he put his paw,</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>Remained and propagated issue.</p> +</div><div class='stanza'> +<p>To-day we wax exceeding fat</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>On lands our roving fathers raided;</p> +<p>And blush with holy horror at</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>Their lawless sons who do as they did;</p> +<p>No doubt the age improves a lot,</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>It grows more honest, more veracious;</p> +<p>But, as I said, the times are not</p> +<p><span class='indent2'> </span>Quite so conveniently spacious.</p> +</div></div> +</td></tr></table> +<hr class='toprule' /> +<div class='chsp'> +<a name='NOTE' id='NOTE'></a> +<h2>NOTE</h2> +</div> +<p class='intro'>To the Editors of <i>The World</i> and <i>The National Observer</i>, and to +the Proprietors of <i>Punch</i>, I wish to express my thanks for their courtesy +in permitting me to republish these verses.</p> +<p class='ralign' style="margin-right:5.0em">O. S.</p> +<hr class='pb' /> +<div class="center"> +<p class='muchlarger'>The Battle of the Bays.</p> +<p><i>Eighth Edition.</i><br /><br /> +Price 3s. 6d. <i>net.</i> Fcap. 8vo. Price $1.25.</p> +<p class='padtop'>SOME PRESS OPINIONS.</p> +</div><blockquote> +<p>“The new ‘Rejected Addresses’ of Mr. Owen Seaman are quite worthy +to be ranked with the classic volumes of Horace and James.... The +thing is done as well as it could be.... This little volume is <i>merum +sal</i>.”––<i>The Spectator</i>.</p> +<p>“Mr. Kipling has never been so nimbly caught before, for Mr. Seaman +has the art to reproduce his flute-notes as well as his big drum.... +Several of the miscellaneous pieces are among the very best humourous +poetry of this generation. We have laughed at nothing lately more than at +‘Ars Postera,’ at ‘A New Blue Book,’ at ‘To a Boy-Poet of the Decadence,’ +and at ‘To Julia in Shooting Togs.’ But, after all, Mr. Seaman’s masterpiece +up to date is certainly ‘To the Lord of Potsdam.’ ... This will +live, or we are greatly mistaken, among the most effective examples of +historical satire-lyric.”––<i>The Saturday Review</i>.</p> +<p>“It is certainly remarkable, in our dearth of great poetry, how good of +its sort the satiric verse of our day is––so good, in fact, that nothing but the +best will serve, and even the best, like Mr. Seaman’s, which in the day +when Sir George Trevelyan was a wit would have taken people’s breath +away, is apt to be treated as mere journalism.... But really it is the +most characteristic expression of our time, using the accustomed forms of +verse to point the neatest criticisms and the slyest of epigrams.... +Mr. Seaman’s humourous imitation of Mr. Swinburne, Sir Edwin Arnold, +Sir Lewis Morris, Mr. Kipling, and the rest, is in every case very funny.”––<i>St. +James’s Gazette</i>.</p> +<p>“The book abounds in excellent fooling and really wholesome satire, +the ingenuity and felicity of verse and expression giving it likewise a high +artistic value.... Quips and cranks of audacious wit, strokes of a +humour always sane and healthy, waylay the reader incessantly, and leave +him no peace for laughter.”––<i>The Westminster Gazette</i>.</p> +<p>“Mr. Seaman must be tired of being compared to Calverley and J. K. S., +but he is of their company, and, what is more, on their level. ‘The Battle +of the Bays’ ... bristles with points; it is brilliant, ... and it +has that easy conversational flow which is the one absolutely necessary +characteristic of good humourous poetry.... One charm of writing +such as Mr. Seaman’s is that it makes us feel quite obliged to poets whom +we have never admired for being so good to parody.”––<i>Pall Mall Gazette</i>.</p> +<p>“Mr. Owen Seaman has a very neat talent for parody.... The +‘Ballad of a Bun’ is exceedingly funny, and ought to make even Mr. John +Davidson laugh.... All the imitations are good.”––<i>The Times</i>.</p> +<p>“His versatility and bright and ready wit are conspicuous in all his +work. As a parodist he is second to none, not even to Mr. Calverley, if we +may take the word of the reviewers.... Mr. Seaman cracks the whip +with consummate skill, and <a name='TC_4'></a><ins title="Was 'applys'">applies</ins> it with such naughty <ins title="Was 'precison'">precision</ins>, that even +his victims must find it difficult to withhold their admiration.”––<i>The +National Observer</i>.</p> +</blockquote><div class="center"> +<hr class='tb' /> +<p><i>BY THE SAME AUTHOR.</i></p> +<p class='muchlarger'>Horace at Cambridge</p> +<p><i>New and Revised Edition.</i><br /> +Price 3s. 6d. <i>net.</i> Fcap. 8vo. Price $1.25.</p> +</div><blockquote> +<p>“To every university man ... this book will be a rare treat. But in +virtue of its humour, its extreme and felicitous dexterity of workmanship +both in rhyme and metre ... it will appeal to a far wider public.”––<i>Punch</i>.</p> +<p>“We very cordially recommend Mr. Seaman’s book ... to all who are +likely to care for verse which is not unworthy to be ranked with the efforts +of Calverley the immortal.”––<i>The World</i>.</p> +<p>“Mr. Seaman manages his ingenious metres with unfailing skill.”––<i>The +Athenæum</i>.</p> +<p>“A genial cynic with a genuine smack of Bon Gaultier.”––<i>St. +James’s Gazette</i>.</p> +<p>“The humour is bright and spontaneous.”––<i>The Times</i>.</p> +<p>“Mr. Seaman’s book is never slipshod; it has the neatness, the precision, +the sparkle of its Latin namesake.”––<i>The Spectator</i>.</p> +</blockquote><div class="center"> +<p class='muchlarger padtop'>Tillers of the Sand</p> +<p><span class='smcap'>Smith, Elder & Co.</span>, London. 3s. 6d.</p> +</div><blockquote> +<p>“In the political sphere Mr. Seaman is at present without a rival.”––<i>The +Globe</i>.</p> +<p>“Taken as a whole, we are much mistaken if any better volume of +political verse has made its appearance since the days of the <i>Rolliad</i> and +the <i>Anti-Jacobin</i>.”––<i>The World</i>.</p> +<p>“The best of the satirists on the other side is Mr. Owen Seaman, who +has touched off some of the weaknesses of the late government with very +happy and caustic humour.”––<i>The Spectator</i>.</p> +<p>“Mr. Seaman is own brother to Calverley, and in modern times there +has been nothing so good of its sort as <a name='TC_5'></a><ins title="Changed to single quotes">‘Tillers of the Sand.’</ins>... Mr. +Seaman proves himself so brilliant a jester that it needs must be he takes +the jester’s privilege of offending no one.”––<i>The Speaker</i>.</p> +<p>“One of the most accomplished writers of occasional verse to-day.”––<i>Bookman</i>.</p> +<p>“It is all so good that passages are hard to choose.”––<i>Scotsman</i>.</p> +<p>“The author’s rare quality––a capacity for satirizing one’s political +opponents with a wit that leaves no wound.”––Mr. +<span class='smcap'>James Payn</span> in <i>The Illustrated London News</i>.</p> +<p>“Brilliant and inimitable.”––<i>Chicago Daily News</i>.</p> +</blockquote><div class="center"> +<p class='muchlarger padtop'>In Cap and Bells</p> +<p><i>Fifth Edition.</i><br /> +Price 3s. 6d. <i>net.</i> Fcap. 8vo. Price $1.25.</p> +</div><blockquote> +<p>“Here is no shouting, no banging of the bauble. The form of phrase, +the inflexion of voice, the dancing light of humour, make up the motley +which is the true jester’s <a name='TC_6'></a><ins title="Changed to single quotes">‘only wear’</ins>; and under his flashes of merriment +is a sober, sound philosophy. This, after all, is the only kind of humour +that lasts ... it is easy to appreciate, difficult to acquire; and Mr. +Owen Seaman, having acquired it with all the felicity of good humour and +art, stands practically alone among the humourists of the hour.... +His technical quality seems to strengthen with every new volume.”––Mr. +<span class='smcap'><a name='TC_7'></a><ins title="Was 'Arthuh'">Arthur</ins> Waugh</span> in <i>The St. James’ Gazette</i>.</p> +<p>“Clean laughter, and scholarly wit; polished metre, and humorous +phrase––these are to me the essential characteristics for which I am invariably +glad to read Mr. Owen Seaman.”––Mr. +<span class='smcap'>Theodore Cook</span> in <i>Literature</i>.</p> +<p>“The brilliant author of ‘Cap and Bells’ assumes, before the eyes of a +later generation, the mantle of Crawley, and does the same sort of work +more felicitously still.”––<i>The Speaker</i>.</p> +<p>“At the end of the volume Mr. Seaman gives agreeable evidence that, +in the domain of memorial and complimentary verse, he has the knack of +combining felicity of phrase with a wholesome avoidance alike of adulation +and excess. The ‘In Memoriam’ lines to Lewis Carroll, with the graceful +reference to Sir John Tenniel, are particularly happy.”––<i>The Spectator</i>.</p> +<p>“Calverley had not, or did not show in his verses, Mr. Seaman’s +critical acuteness and depth.... As a critic in the form of parody, Mr. +Seaman is without a rival.... Of his serious poems an ode to Queen +Wilhelmina is a very graceful accomplishment of a difficult task.”––Mr. +<span class='smcap'>G. S. Street</span> in <i>The Pall Mall Magazine</i>.</p> +<p>“Mr. Seaman is what we may call a critic of mannerisms, and a very +keen critic to boot. His is a useful, not a merely destructive, function. He +is no wanton debaser of the poetic currency. One might rather call him a +touchstone of true merit in poetry.”––<i>Daily Chronicle</i>.</p> +<p>“A new volume from the pen of Mr. Owen Seaman must needs be +welcome. He is the most accomplished versifier among all our jesters.”––<i>The +Globe</i>.</p> +<p>“The parodies in Mr. Seaman’s new volume are wonderful examples of +this difficult art; the Stephen Phillips, the Alfred Austin, the Watts-Dunton, +and the George Meredith are faultless.”––<i>Academy</i>.</p> +<p>“Mr. Owen Seaman has already made his reputation as, perhaps, the +surest modern poet to make you laugh, and the nature of his new collection +of copies of verse cannot be better described than by saying that it is well +worthy of his hand.... The book is heartsome and delightful all +through.”––<i>The Scotsman</i>.</p> +<p>“The present vogue of Mr. Owen Seaman’s delightful parodies is very +great.”––<i>Liverpool Courier</i>.</p> +</blockquote> +<p class='center'>JOHN LANE: The Bodley Head, London & New York.</p> +<hr class='pb' /> +<div class="trnote"> +<p><b>Transcriber Notes</b></p> +<p>Typographical inconsistencies have been changed and are +<ins class="trchange" title="Was 'hgihligthed'">highlighted</ins> and +listed below.</p> +<p>Hyphenation standardized and is also listed below.</p> +<p>Archaic and variable spelling is preserved.</p> +<p>Author’s punctuation style is preserved, including some hyphenated words that are integral to a poem.</p> +<hr class='invis' /> +<p><b>Transcriber Changes</b></p> +<p>The following changes were made to the original text:</p> +<p><a href='#TC_1'>Page 22</a>: Was ’bellettrist’ (‘Heed not <b>belletrist</b> jargon.’)</p> +<p><a href='#TC_2'>Page 45</a>: Was ’lachrimal’ (Year that has painfully tickled the <b>lachrymal</b> nerves of the Muses)</p> +<p><a href='#TC_3'>Page 84</a>: Added semi-colon after ’Pyrrhics’ (Broke out in unexpected <b>Pyrrhics;</b>)</p> +<p><a href='#TC_4'>Page 88</a>: Was ’applys’ and ’precison’ (Mr. Seaman cracks the whip with consummate skill, and <b>applies</b> it with such naughty <b>precision</b>, that even his victims must find it difficult to withhold their admiration.)</p> +<p><a href='#TC_5'>Page 89</a>: Changed to single quotes (in modern times there has been nothing so good of its sort as <b>‘Tillers of the Sand.’</b>)</p> +<p><a href='#TC_6'>Advertisements</a>: Changed to single quotes (the dancing light of humour, make up the motley which is the true jester’s <b>‘only wear’</b>; and under his flashes of merriment is a sober, sound philosophy.)</p> +<p><a href='#TC_7'>Advertisements</a>: Was ’Arthuh’ (His technical quality seems to strengthen with every new +volume.”––Mr. <span class='smcap'><b>Arthur</b> Waugh</span> in <i>The St. James’ Gazette</i>.)</p> +</div> + +<!-- generated by ppg.rb version: ppg0726a --> +<!-- timestamp: Sun Jul 26 19:02:25 -0400 2009 --> + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Battle of the Bays, by Owen Seaman + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE BATTLE OF THE BAYS *** + +***** This file should be named 29515-h.htm or 29515-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/2/9/5/1/29515/ + +Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Katherine Ward, and the +Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://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: The Battle of the Bays + +Author: Owen Seaman + +Release Date: July 27, 2009 [EBook #29515] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE BATTLE OF THE BAYS *** + + + + +Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Katherine Ward, and the +Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net + + + + + + + + + +THE BATTLE OF THE BAYS + + + _By the same Author_ + + IN CAP AND BELLS + HORACE AT CAMBRIDGE + TILLERS OF THE SAND + + + BY OWEN SEAMAN + + + JOHN LANE + THE BODLEY HEAD + LONDON & NEW YORK + 1902 + + + _Copyright in the United States._ + _All Rights Reserved._ + + + _Eighth Edition_ + + + + +CONTENTS. + + PAGE + I. The Battle of the Bays 1 + 1. A Song of Renunciation 1 + 2. For the Albums of Crowned Heads Only 5 + 3. Marsyas in Hades 11 + 4. The Rhyme of the Kipperling 15 + 5. A Ballad of a Bun 22 + 6. A Vigo-Street Eclogue 27 + 7. An Ode to Spring in the Metropolis 37 + 8. Yet 42 + 9. Elegi Musarum 44 + II. To Mr. William Watson 49 + III. England's Alfred Abroad 53 + IV. Lilith Libifera 57 + V. Ars Postera 58 + VI. A New Blue Book 61 + VII. To a Boy-Poet of the Decadence 64 + VIII. To Julia in Shooting Togs 66 + IX. The Links of Love 69 + X. Swords and Ploughshares 71 + XI. To the Lord of Potsdam 76 + XII. From the Lord of Potsdam 80 + XIII. 'The Spacious Times' 83 + + + + +I. THE BATTLE OF THE BAYS. + +1. + +A SONG OF RENUNCIATION. + +(AFTER A. C. S.) + + + In the days of my season of salad, + When the down was as dew on my cheek, + And for French I was bred on the ballad, + For Greek on the writers of Greek,-- + Then I sang of the rose that is ruddy, + Of 'pleasure that winces and stings,' + Of white women and wine that is bloody, + And similar things. + + Of Delight that is dear as Desi-er, + And Desire that is dear as Delight; + Of the fangs of the flame that is fi-er, + Of the bruises of kisses that bite; + Of embraces that clasp and that sever, + Of blushes that flutter and flee + Round the limbs of Dolores, whoever + Dolores may be. + + I sang of false faith that is fleeting + As froth of the swallowing seas, + Time's curse that is fatal as Keating + Is fatal to amorous fleas; + Of the wanness of woe that is whelp of + The lust that is blind as a bat-- + By the help of my Muse and the help of + The relative THAT. + + Panatheist, bruiser and breaker + Of kings and the creatures of kings, + I shouted on Freedom to shake her + Feet loose of the fetter that clings; + Far rolling my ravenous red eye, + And lifting a mutinous lid, + To all monarchs and matrons I said I + Would shock them--and did. + + Thee I sang, and thy loves, O Thalassian, + O 'noble and nude and antique!' + Unashamed in the 'fearless old fashion' + Ere washing was done by the week; + When the 'roses and rapture' that girt you + Were visions of delicate vice, + And the 'lilies and languors of virtue' + Not nearly so nice. + + O delights of the time of my teething, + Felise, Fragoletta, Yolande! + Foam-yeast of a youth in its seething + On blasted and blithering sand! + Snake-crowned on your tresses and belted + With blossoms that coil and decay, + Ye are gone; ye are lost; ye are melted + Like ices in May. + + Hushed now is the bibulous bubble + Of 'lithe and lascivious' throats; + Long stript and extinct is the stubble + Of hoary and harvested oats; + From the sweets that are sour as the sorrel's + The bees have abortively swarmed; + And Algernon's earlier morals + Are fairly reformed. + + I have written a loyal Armada, + And posed in a Jubilee pose; + I have babbled of babies and played a + New tune on the turn of their toes; + Washed white from the stain of Astarte, + My books any virgin may buy; + And I hear I am praised by a party + Called Something Mackay! + + When erased are the records, and rotten + The meshes of memory's net; + When the grace that forgives has forgotten + The things that are good to forget; + When the trill of my juvenile trumpet + Is dead and its echoes are dead; + Then the laurel shall lie on the crumpet + And crown of my head! + + +2. + +FOR THE ALBUMS OF CROWNED HEADS ONLY. + +(AFTER SIR E. A.) + +1. _From the third Sa'dine Box of the eighth Gazelle of Ghazal._ + + Ya Ya! Best-Beloved! I look to thy dimples and drink; + Tiddlihi! to thy cheek-pits and chin-pit, my Tulip, my Pink! + + See my heart rises up like a bubble, and bursts in my throat, + And the dimples that draw it are Three, like the Men in a Boat. + + Thrice Three are the Muses, and I that begat her should guess + That the Tenth is the TELE-EPHEMERA, Pride of the PRESS! + + And the Graces were triplets till lately the fruitful Diti + Propagated a Fourth, and the infant was W. G. + + From my post of Propinquity prone on my languorous knees + My tears slither down like the Gum of Arabia's trees. + + "Am I drunk?" Heart-Entangler! By Hafiz, the Blender of Squish! + 'Tis the camel that sits on the prayer-mat is drunk as a fish. + + As I hope for the future Uprising, deny it who can, + Two years I have worn the Blue Ribbon, come next Ramadan! + + Chest-Preserver! thou knowest thine eyes, they alone, are my drink, + Blue-black as the sloes of the Garden or Stephens his Ink. + + On thy sugar-sweet liplets, my Cypress! I browse like a bee, + And am aching, as after a surfeit of Melon, for thee! + + Low laid at thy feet--little feet--in the dust like a worm, + Round the train of thy skirt, O my Peacock, I fitfully squirm. + + By Allah! I swoon, I rotate, I am sickly of hue! + And the Infidel swore that Jam-Jam was a Temperance brew! + + Heart-Punisher! Surely I think it was jalapped with gin! + Aha! Paradise! I am passing! So be it! Amin! + + +2. _From a little thing by the Princess Onono Goawai._ + + The bulbul hummeth like a book + Upon the pooh-pooh tree, + And now and then he takes a look + At you and me, + At me and you. + Kuchi! + Kuchoo! + + +3. _From the Sanskrit of Matabiliwaijo._ + + Wind! a word with thee! thou goest where my Well-Preserved lies + On her bed of bonny briers keeping off the wicked flies. + + Thou shalt know her by th' aroma of her bosom, which is musk, + And her ivories that glisten like an elephantine tusk. + + Seek her coral-guarded tympanum and whisper "Poppinjai!" + And (referring to her lover) kindly add "A-lal-lal-lai!" + + Breeze! thou knowest my condition; state it broadly, if you please, + In a smattering of Indo-Turco-Perso-Japanese. + + Say my youth is flitting freely, and before the season goes + From the garden of my Tutsi I am fain to pluck a rose. + + Tell her I'm a wanton Sufi (what a Sufi really is + She may know, perhaps--I count it one of Allah's mysteries). + + Fly, O blessed Breeze, and hither bring me back the net result; + Fly as flies the rude mosquito from Abdullah's catapult. + + Fly as flies the rusty rickshaw of the Kurumayasan, + When he scents a Hippopotam down the groves of Gulistan. + + Fly and cull, O cull, a section of my Pipkin's purple tress; + Thou shalt find me drinking deeply with the Lords that rule the + Mess; + + Quaffing mead and mighty sodas with the Johnis, Lords of War, + Talking 'jungle in the gun-room,' underneath the deodar. + + Hoo Tawa! I go to join them; he that cometh late is curst, + For the Lords of War (by Akbar) have a most amazing thirst! + + +3. + +MARSYAS IN HADES. + +(AFTER SIR L. M.) + + Next I saw + A pensive gentleman of middle age, + That leaned against a Druid oak, his pipe + Pendent beneath his chin--a double one-- + (Meaning the pipe); reluctant was his breath, + For he had mingled in the Morris dance + And rested blown; but damsels in their teens, + All decorous and decorously clad, + Their very ankles hardly visible, + Recalled his motions; while, for chaperon, + Good Mrs. Grundy up against the wall + Beamed approbation. + + On his face I read + Signs of high sadness such as poets wear, + Being divinely discontented with + The praise of _jeunes filles_. Even as I looked, + He touched the portion of his pipe reserved + For minor poetry of solemn tone, + Checking the humorous stops intended for + Electioneering posters and the like; + And therewithal he made the following + Addition to his _Songs Unsung_, or else + His _Unremarked Remarks_: + + "Dear Sir," he said, + "Excuse my saying 'Sir' like that; it is + Our way in Hades here among the damned; + For you must know that some of us are damned + Not only by faint praise but full applause + Of simple critics. Take my case. In me + Behold the good knight Marsyas, M.A., + Three times a candidate for Parliament, + And twice retired; a Justice of the Peace; + Master of Arts (I said), and better known + In literary spheres as Master of + The Mediocre-Obvious; and read + By boarding-misses in their myriads. + These dote upon me. Sweetly have I sung + The commonplaces of philosophy + In common parlance. + + You have read perhaps + The Cymric Triads? Poetry, they say, + Excels alone by sheer simplicity + Of language, subject, and invention. Sir! + The excellence of mine lay that way too. + But fate is partial. Heaven's fulgour moulds + 'To happiness some, some to unhappiness!' + (Look you, the harp was Welsh that figured forth + That excellent last line.) I ask you, Sir, + What would you? Ill content with mortal praise, + And haply somewhat overbold, I sought + To be as gods be; sought, in fact, to filch + Apollo's bays! + + Ah me! Dear me! I fain + Would use a stronger phrase, but hardly dare, + Being, whatever else, respectable. + I say I tired of vulgar homage, gift + Of ignorance. 'High failure overleaps + The bounds of low successes' (there, again, + The harp that twanged was Welsh, but with an echo + Of Browning). Godlike it must be, I thought, + To climb the giddy brink; to pen, for instance, + An Ode to the Imperial Institute, + And fall, if bound to, from a decent height. + + I did and missed the laurel; still I go + On writing; what you hear just now is blank, + Distinctly blank, and might be measured by + The kilometre; yet I rhyme as well + A little; but it takes a lot of time, + And checks the lapse of my pellucid stream + Not all conveniently." + + Thereat he paused, + And wrung the moisture from his pipe; but I, + As one that was intolerably bored, + Took even this occasion to be gone; + And, going, marked him how he took his stile, + Polished the waxen tablets, and began + To make a Royal Paean _by request_, + Or so he said. + + +4. + +THE RHYME OF THE KIPPERLING. + +(AFTER R. K.) + +[N.B.--No nautical terms or statements guaranteed.] + + Away by the haunts of the Yang-tse-boo, + Where the Yuletide runs cold gin, + And the rollicking sign of the _Lord Knows Who_ + Sees mariners drink like sin; + Where the _Jolly Roger_ tips his quart + To the luck of the _Union Jack_; + And some are screwed on the foreign port, + And some on the starboard tack;-- + Ever they tell the tale anew + Of the chase for the kipperling swag; + How the smack _Tommy This_ and the smack _Tommy That_ + They broached each other like a whiskey-vat, + And the _Fuzzy-Wuz_ took the bag. + + Now this is the law of the herring fleet that harries the northern + main, + Tattooed in scars on the chests of the tars with a brand like the + brand of Cain: + That none may woo the sea-born shrew save such as pay their way + With a kipperling netted at noon of night and cured ere the crack of + day. + + It was the woman Sal o' the Dune, and the men were three to one, + Bill the Skipper and Ned the Nipper and Sam that was Son of a Gun; + Bill was a Skipper and Ned was a Nipper and Sam was the Son of a + Gun, + And the woman was Sal o' the Dune, as I said, and the men were three + to one. + + There was never a light in the sky that night of the soft midsummer + gales, + But the great man-bloaters snorted low, and the young 'uns sang like + whales; + And out laughed Sal (like a dog-toothed wheel was the laugh that Sal + laughed she): + "Now who's for a bride on the shady side of up'ards of forty-three?" + + And Neddy he swore by butt and bend, and Billy by bend and bitt, + And nautical names that no man frames but your amateur nautical + wit; + And Sam said, "Shiver my topping-lifts and scuttle my foc's'le + yarn, + And may I be curst, if I'm not in first with a kipperling slued + astarn!" + + Now the smack _Tommy This_ and the smack _Tommy That_ and the + _Fuzzy-Wuz_ smack, all three, + Their captains bold, they were Bill and Ned and Sam respectivelee. + + And it's writ in the rules that the primary schools of kippers + should get off cheap + For a two mile reach off Foulness beach when the July tide's at + neap; + And the lawless lubbers that lust for loot and filch the yearling + stock + They get smart raps from the coastguard chaps with their blunderbuss + fixed half-cock. + + Now Bill the Skipper and Ned the Nipper could tell green cheese from + blue, + And Bill knew a trick and Ned knew a trick, but Sam knew a trick + worth two. + + So Bill he sneaks a corporal's breeks and a belt of pipeclayed + hide, + And splices them on to the jibsail-boom like a troopship on the + tide. + + And likewise Ned to his masthead he runs a rag of the Queen's, + With a rusty sword and a moke on board to bray like the Horse + Marines. + + But Sam sniffs gore and he keeps off-shore and he waits for things + to stir, + Then he tracks for the deep with a long fog-horn rigged up like a + bowchaser. + + Now scarce had Ned dropped line and lead when he spots the + pipeclayed hide, + And the corporal's breeks on the jibsail-boom like a troopship on + the tide; + And Bill likewise, when he ups and spies the slip of a rag of the + Queen's, + And the rusty sword, and he sniffs aboard the moke of the Horse + Marines. + + So they each luffed sail, and they each turned tail, and they + whipped their wheels like mad, + When the one he said "By the Lord, it's Ned!" and the other, "It's + Bill, by Gad!" + + Then about and about, and nozzle to snout, they rammed through + breach and brace, + And the splinters flew as they mostly do when a Government test + takes place. + + Then up stole Sam with his little ram and the nautical talk flowed + free, + And in good bold type might have covered the two front sheets of the + _P. M. G._ + + But the fog-horn bluff was safe enough, where all was weed and + weft, + And the conger-eels were a-making meals, and the pick of the tackle + left + Was a binnacle-lid and a leak in the bilge and the chip of a cracked + sheerstrake + And the corporal's belt and the moke's cool pelt and a portrait of + Francis Drake. + + So Sam he hauls the dead men's trawls and he booms for the + harbour-bar, + And the splitten fry are salted dry by the blink of the morning + star. + + And Sal o' the Dune was wed next moon by the man that paid his way + With a kipperling netted at noon of night and cured ere the crack of + day; + For such is the law of the herring fleet that bloats on the northern + main, + Tattooed in scars on the chests of the tars with a brand like the + brand of Cain. + + And still in the haunts of the Yang-tse-boo + Ever they tell the tale anew + Of the chase for the kipperling swag; + How the smack _Tommy This_ and the smack _Tommy That_ + They broached each other like a whiskey-vat, + And the _Fuzzy-Wuz_ took the bag. + + +5. + +A BALLAD OF A BUN. + +(AFTER J. D.) + + 'I am sister to the mountains now, + And sister to the sun and moon.' + + 'Heed not belletrist jargon.' + + JOHN DAVIDSON. + + + From Whitsuntide to Whitsuntide-- + That is to say, all through the year-- + Her patient pen was occupied + With songs and tales of pleasant cheer. + + But still her talent went to waste + Like flotsam on an open sea; + She never hit the public taste, + Or knew the knack of Bellettrie. + + Across the sounding City's fogs + There hurtled round her weary head + The thunder of the rolling logs; + "The Critics' Carnival!" she said. + + Immortal prigs took heaven by storm, + Prigs scattered largesses of praise; + The work of both was rather warm; + "This is," she said, "the thing that pays!" + + Sharp envy turned her wine to blood-- + I mean it turned her blood to wine; + And this resolve came like a flood-- + "The cake of knowledge must be mine! + + "I am in Eve's predicament-- + I sha'n't be happy till I've sinned; + Away!" She lightly rose, and sent + Her scruples sailing down the wind. + + She did not tear her open breast, + Nor leave behind a track of gore, + But carried flannel next her chest, + And wore the boots she always wore. + + Across the sounding City's din + She wandered, looking indiscreet, + And ultimately landed in + The neighbourhood of Regent Street. + + She ran against a resolute + Policeman standing like a wall; + She kissed his feet and asked the route + To where they held the Carnival. + + Her strange behaviour caused remark; + They said, "Her reason has been lost;" + Beside her eyes the gas was dark, + But that was owing to the frost. + + A Decadent was dribbling by; + "Lady," he said, "you seem undone; + You need a panacea; try + This sample of the Bodley bun. + + "It is fulfilled of precious spice, + Whereof I give the recipe;-- + Take common dripping, stew in vice, + And serve with vertu; taste and see! + + "And lo! I brand you on the brow + As kin to Nature's lowest germ; + You are sister to the microbe now, + And second-cousin to the worm." + + He gave her of his golden store, + Such hunger hovered in her look; + She took the bun, and asked for more, + And went away and wrote a book. + + To put the matter shortly, she + Became the topic of the town; + In all the lists of Bellettrie + Her name was regularly down. + + "We recognise," the critics wrote, + "Maupassant's verve and Heine's wit;" + Some even made a verbal note + Of Shakespeare being out of it. + + The seasons went and came again; + At length the languid Public cried: + "It is a sorry sort of Lane + That hardly ever turns aside. + + "We want a little change of air; + On that," they said, "we must insist; + We cannot any longer bear + The seedy sex-impressionist." + + Across the sounding City's din + This rumour smote her on the ear: + "The publishers are going in + For songs and tales of pleasant cheer!" + + "Alack!" she said, "I lost the art, + And left my womanhood foredone, + When first I trafficked in the mart + All for a mess of Bodley bun. + + "I cannot cut my kin at will, + Or jilt the protoplastic germ; + I am sister to the microbe still, + And second-cousin to the worm!" + + +6. + +A VIGO-STREET ECLOGUE. + +(AFTER THE SAME) + + Maecenas. John. George. Arthur. Grant. Richard. + + MAECENAS. + + What ho! a merry Christmas! Pff! + Sharp blows the frosty blizzard's whff! + Pile on more logs and let them roll, + And pass the humming wassail-bowl! + + JOHN. + + The wassail-bowl! the wind is snell! + Drinc hael! and warm the poet's pell! + + MAECENAS. + + Richard! say something rustic. + + RICHARD. + + Lo! + The customary mistletoe, + Prehensile on the apple-bough, + Invites the usual kiss. + + GEORGE. + + And now + Cathartic hellebore should be + A cure for imbecility. + + GRANT. + + Now holly-berries have begun + To blush for Women That Have Done. + + ARTHUR. + + The farmer sticks his stuffy goose! + + MAECENAS. + + Come, come, you grow a little loose; + That's Michaelmas; you must remember + That Michaelmas is in September! + + ARTHUR. + + Northward the swallow sweeps his wing. + + MAECENAS. + + No, no! the bird arrives in spring! + + ARTHUR. + + Such knowledge fits the country clown; + We've better things to note in town. + What's Nature's lore compared with women's? + + JOHN. + + For this enigma go to S-m-ns; + He is the---- + + ARTHUR. + + Yes, I am, I know, + The devil of a Romeo! + + JOHN. + + Hark! hark! the waits, the precious waits! + Their music beats at Heaven's gates. + + MAECENAS. + + What Bodley wight will sing a stave + To match their strumming? I would have + The manly bass of Hobbes's voice; + But Unwin's house is Hobbes's choice. + George! you've a baritone at need. + + GEORGE. + + Alas! my famous _Keynotes_ lead + To _Discords_. + + JOHN. + + I've a little thing + _Of Resurrection_. Shall I sing? + + ARTHUR. + + Please do; but _a propos_ of what? + + JOHN. + + I cannot say, unless _de bottes_. + +[_Proceeds to sing a Ballad of Resurrection._ + + A letter-card from my dear love! + O folded page of blessed blue! + She burst her many-buttoned glove, + And ripped the perforation through. + + "My love, to-night, about eleven, + With never a priest or passing-bell, + We die! and meet, with luck, in Heaven, + But anyhow at least in Hell!" + + Her courage very nearly failed, + In fact she swooned along the floor; + But curiosity prevailed, + She came again and read some more. + + "There is no way but this to choose; + My people fain would have us wed; + But you and I have later views, + And scorn the vulgar marriage-bed. + + "Far be it from me to dictate + How best to break the mortal bond, + But personally I may state + That I shall use the village pond. + + "Be punctual, love, and let us meet + For weal or woe! + This line has lost a pair of feet; + The post is now about to go." + + Ay, ay, she thought, to meet were well, + But if we found each other out? + You, say, in Heaven, I in Hell, + Or else the other way about! + + Nay, there be heavy odds, she said, + One fate shall save us both or damn; + We surely shall be bracketed! + She ceased and sent a telegram. + + To Guy le Preux de Balthazar-- + Here followed his address, and then + This pregnant message--"Right you are!" + She wrote it with the office pen. + + She flashed the phrase along the wires, + Then, passing by a dagger-shop, + Bought one and wiped it on her sire's + Best graduated razor-strop. + + On second thoughts, she said, I lean + To poison; true, a knife like this + Looks pretty, rib and rib between, + But people very often miss. + + She sought the chemist in his place; + He sampled her with searching eye; + She looked him frankly in the face, + And told a wicked, wicked lie. + + "My hen," she said,--"a bantam blend-- + Has hatched a poor demented chick; + To ease the gentle creature's end + I want a pint of arsenic." + + The chemist deemed the order large, + But said no thing and drew the drug; + She seized and bore the sacred charge + Before her in a pewter mug. + + At tea she faced her fell intent; + Dressing, she lightly laughed at doom; + Dined with the family, and spent + The evening in the drawing-room. + + At ten the early rooster crowed; + Ten-thirty struck and she was gone; + She crossed alone the naked road; + The road had really nothing on. + + Her golden braids hung down her back; + Within her side she felt a stitch; + And once the moon behind the wrack + Came out and caught her in a ditch. + + Once ere she reached the trysting-pear + She broke the slumber of the rooks; + She wrung her hands, she tore her hair, + And did as people do in books. + + From out her cloak she fetched the drug-- + "Thy health, my love, in Heaven or Hell!" + Deep to the dregs she drained the mug + And dropped it, feeling far from well. + + Upon the punctual stroke her fond + True lover kept the oath he swore; + Plunged softly in the village pond, + But feeling chilly swam ashore. + + Next morning in the judgment-place + Two pallid prisoners were tried; + Their guilt was plain; it was a case + Of ineffective suicide. + + Yestreen a member of the Force + Had found a woman deadly sick, + Lamenting, with sincere remorse, + An overdose of arsenic. + + Another heard upon his beat + One darkly muttering, "This is Hell!" + His weed was wet from head to feet; + He put him in a common cell. + + The Justice chewed the evidence; + His eyes were soft, his lips were bland; + It was, he said, a first offence; + He merely gave a reprimand. + + "Go free, my poppets, keep the laws, + And get ye wed at once," said he; + The court indulged in rude applause; + The usher cleared the gallery. + + The prison-warder, deeply stirred, + Approached the culprits at the bar; + Then haled them forth without a word + Towards the nearest Registrar. + + RICHARD. + + John, you surpass yourself. Next week + Expect a flattering critique! + + JOHN. + + The waits are whining in the cold + With clavicorn and clarigold; + They play them like a crumpled horn, + The clarigold and clavicorn. + + +7. + +AN ODE TO SPRING IN THE METROPOLIS. + +(AFTER R. LE G.) + + Is this the Seine? + And am I altogether wrong + About the brain, + Dreaming I hear the British tongue? + Dear Heaven! what a rhyme! + And yet 'tis all as good + As some that I have fashioned in my time, + Like _bud_ and _wood_; + And on the other hand you couldn't have a more precise or neater + Metre. + + Is this, I ask, the Seine? + And yonder sylvan lane, + Is it the _Bois_? + _Ma foi!_ + _Comme elle est chic_, my Paris, my grisette! + Yet may I not forget + That London still remains the missus + Of this Narcissus. + + No, no! 'tis not the Seine! + It is the artificial mere + That permeates St. James's Park. + The air is bosom-shaped and clear; + And, Himmel! do I hear the lark, + The good old Shelley-Wordsworth lark? + Even now, I prithee, + Hark + Him hammer + On Heaven's harmonious stithy, + Dew-drunken--like my grammar! + + And O the trees! + Beneath their shade the hairless coot + Waddles at ease, + Hushing the magic of his gurgling beak; + Or haply in Tree-worship leans his cheek + Against their blind + And hoary rind, + Observing how the sap + Comes humming upwards from the tap- + Root! + Thrice happy, hairless coot! + + And O the sun! + See, see, he shakes + His big red hands at me in wanton fun! + A glorious image that! it might be Blake's; + As in my critical capacity I took occasion to remark elsewhere, + When heaping praise + On this exceptionally happy phrase, + Although I made it up myself. + But I and Blake, we really constitute a pair, + Each being rather like an artless woodland elf. + + And O the stars! I cannot say + I see a star just now, + Not at this time of day; + But anyhow + The stars are all my brothers; + (This verse is shorter than the others). + + O Constitution Hill! + (This verse is shorter still). + + Ah! London, London in the Spring! + You are, you know you are, + So full of curious sights, + Especially by nights. + From gilded bar to gilded bar + Youth goes his giddy whirl, + His heart fulfilled of Music-Hall, + His arm fulfilled of girl! + I frankly call + That last effect a perfect pearl! + + I know it's + Not given to many poets + To frame so fair a thing + As this of mine, of Spring. + Indeed, the world grows Lilliput + All but + A precious few, the heirs of utter godlihead, + Who wear the yellow flower of blameless bodlihead! + + And they, with Laureates dead, look down + On smaller fry unworthy of the crown, + Mere mushroom men, puff-balls that advertise + And bravely think to brush the skies. + Great is advertisement with little men! + _Moi, qui vous parle, L- G-ll--nn-_, + Have told them so; + I ought to know! + + +8. + +YET. + +(AFTER F. E. W.) + + Sing me a drawing-room song, darling! + Sing by the sunset's glow; + Now while the shadows are long, darling; + Now while the lights are low; + Something so chaste and so coy, darling! + Something that melts the chest; + Milder than even Molloy, darling! + Better than Bingham's best. + + Sing me a drawing-room song, darling! + Sing as you sang of yore, + Lisping of love that is strong, darling! + Strong as a big barn-door; + Let the true knight be bold, darling! + Let him arrive too late; + Stick in a bower of gold, darling! + Stick in a golden gate. + + Sing me a drawing-room song, darling! + Bear on the angels' wings + Children that know no wrong, darling! + Little cherubic things! + Sing of their sunny hair, darling! + Get them to die in June; + Wake, if you can, on the stair, darling! + Echoes of tiny shoon. + + Sing me a drawing-room song, darling! + Sentiment may be false, + Yet it will worry along, darling! + Set to a tum-tum valse; + See that the verses are few, darling! + Keep to the rule of three; + That will be better for you, darling! + Certainly better for me. + + +9. + +ELEGI MUSARUM. + +(AFTER W. W.) + +[To Mr. St. Loe Strachey.] + + Dawn of the year that emerges, a fine and ebullient Phoenix, + Forth from the cinders of Self, out of the ash of the Past; + Year that discovers my Muse in the thick of purpureal sonnets, + Slating diplomacy's sloth, blushing for 'Abdul the d----d'; + Year that in guise of a herald declaring the close of the tourney + Clears the redoubtable lists hot with the Battle of Bays; + Binds on the brows of the Tory, the highly respectable Austin, + Laurels that Phoebus of old wore on the top of his tuft; + + Leaving the locks of the hydra, of Bodley the numerous-headed, + Clean as the chin of a boy, bare as a babe in a bath; + Year that--I see in the vista the principal verb of the sentence + Loom as a deeply-desired bride that is late at the post-- + Year that has painfully tickled the lachrymal nerves of the Muses, + Giving Another the gift due to Respectfully Theirs;-- + _Hinc illae lacrimae!_ Ah, reader! I grossly misled you; + See, it was false; there is no principal verb after all! + + His likewise is the anguish, who followed with soft serenading + Me as the tremulous tide tracks the meandering moon; + Climbing as Romeo clomb, peradventure by help of a flower-pot, + Where in her balconied bower lay, inexpressibly coy, + Juliet, not as the others, supinely, insanely erotic, + Pallid and yellow of hue, very degenerate souls, + Rioting round with the rapture of palpitant ichorous ardour, + But an immaculate maid, 'one,' you may say, 'of the best'! + His, I repeat, is the anguish--my journalist, eulogist critic, + Strachey, the generous judge, Saintly unlimited Loe! + + Vainly the stolid _Spectator_, bewildered with fabulous bow-wows, + Sick with a surfeit of dog, ran me for all it was worth! + Vainly--if I may recur to a metaphor drawn from the ocean, + Long (in a figure of speech) tied to the tail of the moon-- + Vainly, O excellent organ! with ample and aqueous unction + Once, as a rule, in a week, 'cleansing the Earth of her stain'; + (Here you will possibly pardon the natural scion of poets, + Proud with humility's pride, spoiling a passage from Keats)-- + Vainly your voice on the ears of impregnable Laureate-makers, + Rang as the sinuous sea rings on a petrified coast; + Vainly your voice with a subtle and slightly indelicate largess, + Broke on an obdurate world hymning the advent of Me; + When from the 'commune of air,' from 'the exquisite fabric of + Silence,' + I, a superior orb, burst into exquisite print! + + What shall we say for your greeting, O good horticultural Alfred! + Royalty's darling and pride, crown of the Salisbury Press? + Now when the negligent Public, in search of a subject for dinner, + Asks for the names of your books, Lord! what a boom there will + be! + Hoarse in Penbryn are the howlings that rise for the hope of the + Cymri; + Over her Algernon's head Putney composes a dirge; + Edwin anathematises politely in various lingos; + Davidson ruminates hard over a _Ballad of Hell_; + Fondly Le Gallienne fancies how pretty the Delphian laurels + Would have appeared on his own hairy and passionate poll; + I, imperturbably careless, untainted of jealousy's jaundice, + Simply regret the profane contumely done to the Muse; + Done to the Muse in the person of Me, her patron, that never + Licked Ministerial lips, dusted the boots of the Court! + Surely I hear through the noisy and nauseous clamour of Carlton + Sobs of the sensitive Nine heave upon Helicon's hump! + + + + +II. TO MR. WILLIAM WATSON. + +[On writing the first instalment of _The Purple East_, a 'fine sonnet +which it is our privilege to publish.'--_Westminster Gazette_, Dec. +16, 1895.] + + + Dear Mr. Watson, we have heard with wonder, + Not all unmingled with a sad regret, + That little penny blast of purple thunder, + You issued in the _Westminster Gazette_; + The Editor describes it as a sonnet; + I wish to make a few remarks upon it. + + _Never, O craven England, nevermore + Prate thou of generous effort, righteous aim!_ + So ran the lines, and left me very sore, + For you may guess my heart was hot with shame: + Even thus early in your ample song + I felt that something must be really wrong. + + But when I learned that our ignoble nation + Lay sleeping like a log, and lay alone, + Propping, according to your information, + _Abdul the Damned on his infernal throne_, + O then I scattered to the wind my fears, + And nearly went and joined the Volunteers. + + But just in time the thought occurred to me + That England commonly commits her course + To men as good at heart as even we + And possibly much richer in resource; + That we had better mind our own affairs + And leave these gentlemen to manage theirs. + + It further seemed a work uncommon light + For one like you, a casual civilian, + To order half a hemisphere to fight + And slaughter one another by the million, + While you yourself, a paper Galahad, + Spilt ink for blood upon a blotting-pad. + + The days are gone when sword and poet's pen + One gallant gifted hand was wont to wield; + When Taillefer in face of Harold's men + Rode foremost on to Senlac's fatal field, + And tossed his sword in air, and sang a spell + Of Roland's battle-song, and, singing, fell. + + The days are gone when troubadours by dozens + Polished their steel and joined the stout crusade, + Strumming, in memory of pretty cousins, + _The Girl I left behind Me_, on parade; + They often used to rattle off a ballad in + The intervals of punishing the Saladin. + + In later times, of course I know there's Byron, + Who by his own report could play the man; + I seem to see him with his Lesbian lyre on, + And brandishing a useful yataghan; + Though never going altogether strong, he + Managed at least to die at Missolonghi. + + No more the trades of lute and lance are linked, + Though doubtless under many martial bonnets + Brave heads there be that harbour the distinct + Belief that they can manufacture sonnets; + But on the other hand a bard is not + Supposed to run the risk of being shot. + + Then since your courage lacks a crucial test, + And politics were never your profession, + Dear Mr. Watson, won't you find it best + To temper valour with a due discretion? + That so, despite the fond _Spectator's_ booming, + Above your brow the bays may yet be blooming. + + + + +III. ENGLAND'S ALFRED ABROAD. + +[M. Alfred Austin, poete-laureat d'Angleterre, vient d'arriver a +Nice, ou il a devance la Reine. Il etait, hier, dans les jardins de +Monte-Carlo. Sera-ce sous notre ciel qu'il ecrira son premier +poeme?--_Menton-Mondain_.] + + + Wrong? are they wrong? Of course they are, + I venture to reply; + For I bore 'my first' (and, I hope, my worst) + A month or so gone by; + And I can't repeat it under this + Or any other sky. + + What! has the public never heard + In these benighted climes + That nascent note of my Laureate throat, + That fluty fitte of rhymes + Which occupied about a half + A column of the _Times_? + + They little know what they have lost, + Nor what a carnal beano + They might have spent in the thick of Lent + If only Daniel Leno + Had sung them _Jameson's Ride_ and knocked + The Monaco Casino. + + Some day the croupiers' furtive eyes + Will all be wringing wet; + Even the Prince will hardly mince + The language of regret + At entertaining unawares + The famed Alhambra Pet. + + But still not quite incognito + I mark the moving scene, + In a tepid zone where (like my own) + The palms are ever green, + And find myself reported as + A herald of the Queen. + + Here where aloft the heavens are blue, + And blue the seas below, + I roll my eye and fondly try + To get the rhymes to go, + As I pace _The Garden that I love_, + Composing all I know. + + But when my poet-pinions droop, + And all the air is wan, + I enter in to the courts of sin + And put a louis on, + And hold my heart and look again, + And lo! the thing is gone! + + Wrong? is it wrong? To baser crafts + Has England's Alfred pandered, + Who once to the sign of Phoebus' shrine + With awesome gait meandered, + And ever wrote in the cause of right + According to his _Standard_? + + Nay! this is life! to take a turn + On Fortune's captious crust; + To pluck the day in a human way + Like men of common dust; + But O! if England's only bard + Should absolutely bust! + + A laureate never borrows on + His coming quarter's pay; + And I mean to stop or ever I pop + My crown of peerless bay; + So I'll take the next _rapide_ to Nice, + And the 'bus to Cimiez. + + _MENTONE, Feb., 1896._ + + + + +IV. LILITH LIBIFERA. + + + Exhumed from out the inner cirque of Hell + By kind permission of the Evil One, + Behold her devilish presentment, done + By Master Aubrey's weird unearthly spell! + This is that Lady known as Jezebel, + Or Lilith, Eden's woman-scorpion, + Libifera, that is, that takes the bun, + Borgia, Vivien, Cussed Damosel. + + Hers are the bulging lips that fairly break + The pumpkin's heart; and hers the eyes that shame + The wanton ape that culls the cocoa-nuts. + Even such the yellow-bellied toads that slake + Nocturnally their amorous-ardent flame + In the wan waste of weary water-butts. + + + + +V. ARS POSTERA. + +[On an advertisement of _A Comedy of Sighs_.] + + + Mr. Aubrey Beer de Beers, + You're getting quite a high renown; + Your Comedy of Leers, you know, + Is posted all about the town; + This sort of stuff I cannot puff, + As Boston says, it makes me 'tired'; + Your Japanee-Rossetti girl + Is not a thing to be desired. + + Mr. Aubrey Beer de Beers, + New English Art (excuse the chaff) + Is like the Newest Humour style, + It's not a thing at which to laugh; + But all the same, you need not maim + A beauty reared on Nature's rules; + A simple maid _au naturel_ + Is worth a dozen spotted ghouls. + + Mr. Aubrey Beer de Beers, + You put strange phantoms on our walls, + If not so daring as _To-day's_, + Nor quite so Hardy as _St. Paul's_; + Her sidelong eyes, her giddy guise,-- + _Grande Dame Sans Merci_ she may be; + But there is that about her throat + Which I myself don't care to see. + + Mr. Aubrey Beer de Beers, + The Philistines across the way, + They say her lips--well, never mind + Precisely what it is they say; + But I have heard a drastic word + That scarce is fit for dainty ears; + But then their taste is not the kind + Of taste to flatter Beer de Beers. + + Bless me, Aubrey Beer de Beers, + On fair Elysian lawns apart + Burd Helen of the Trojan time + Smiles at the latest mode of Art; + Howe'er it be, it seems to me, + It's not important to be New; + New Art would better Nature's best, + But Nature knows a thing or two. + + Aubrey, Aubrey Beer de Beers, + Are there no models at your gate, + Live, shapely, possible and clean? + Or won't they do to 'decorate'? + Then by all means bestrew your scenes + With half the lotuses that blow, + Pothooks and fishing-lines and things, + But let the human woman go! + + + + +VI. A NEW BLUE BOOK. + +[It was hardly to be supposed that the young decadents who once rioted +... in the _Yellow Book_ would be content to remain in obscurity after +the metamorphosis of that periodical and the consequent exclusion of +themselves. The _Savoy_, we learn, to be edited by Mr. Arthur Symons +and Mr. Aubrey Beardsley, will appear early in December.--_Globe_.] + + + 'The world's great age begins anew,' + Cold virtue's weeds are cast; + Our heads are light, our tales are blue, + And things are moving fast; + And no one any longer quarrels + With anybody else's morals. + + A racier journal stamps its pages + With Beardsleys braver far; + A bolder Editor engages + To shame the morning star, + On _London Nights_, not near so chilly, + Sampling a shadier Piccadilly. + + Satyr and Faun their late repose + Now burst like anything; + New Maenads, turning sprightlier toes, + Enjoy a jauntier fling; + With lustier lips old Pan shall play + Drain-pipes along the sewer's way. + + Priapus, wrongly left for dead, + Is dead no more than Pan; + Silenus rises from his bed + And hiccups like a man; + There's something rather chaste (between us) + About Priapus and Silenus. + + O cease to brew your Bodley pap + Whence all the spice is spent! + The splendour of its primal tap + Was gone when Aubrey went; + Behold that subtle Sphinx prepare + Fresh liquors fit to lift your hair. + + Another Magazine shall rise + And paint the palsied town, + Of humbler hue, of simpler size, + And sold at half a crown; + Please note the pregnant brand--_Savoy_, + And don't confuse with _saveloy_.[*] + + +FOOTNOTES: + + [*] Saveloy, a kind of sausage; French _cervelas_, from its containing + brains.--SKEAT. + + + + +VII. TO A BOY-POET OF THE DECADENCE. + +[Showing curious reversal of epigram--'La nature l'a fait sanglier; la +civilisation l'a reduit a l'etat de cochon.'] + + + But my good little man, you have made a mistake + If you really are pleased to suppose + That the Thames is alight with the lyrics you make; + We could all do the same if we chose. + + From Solomon down, we may read, as we run, + Of the ways of a man and a maid; + There is nothing that's new to us under the sun, + And certainly not in the shade. + + The erotic affairs that you fiddle aloud + Are as vulgar as coin of the mint; + And you merely distinguish yourself from the crowd + By the fact that you put 'em in print. + + You're a 'prentice, my boy, in the primitive stage, + And you itch, like a boy, to confess: + When you know a bit more of the arts of the age + You will probably talk a bit less. + + For your dull little vices we don't care a fig, + It is _this_ that we deeply deplore; + You were cast for a common or usual pig, + But you play the invincible bore. + + + + +VIII. TO JULIA IN SHOOTING TOGS + +and a Herrickose vein. + + + Whenas to shoot my Julia goes, + Then, then, (methinks) how bravely shows + That rare arrangement of her clothes! + + So shod as when the Huntress Maid + With thumping buskin bruised the glade, + She moveth, making earth afraid. + + Against the sting of random chaff + Her leathern gaiters circle half + The arduous crescent of her calf. + + Unto th' occasion timely fit, + My love's attire doth show her wit, + And of her legs a little bit. + + Sorely it sticketh in my throat, + She having nowhere to bestow't, + To name the absent petticoat. + + In lieu whereof a wanton pair + Of knickerbockers she doth wear, + Full windy and with space to spare. + + Enlarged by the bellying breeze, + Lord! how they playfully do ease + The urgent knocking of her knees! + + Lengthways curtailed to her taste + A tunic circumvents her waist, + And soothly it is passing chaste. + + Upon her head she hath a gear + Even such as wights of ruddy cheer + Do use in stalking of the deer. + + Haply her truant tresses mock + Some coronal of shapelier block, + To wit, the bounding billy-cock. + + Withal she hath a loaded gun, + Whereat the pheasants, as they run, + Do make a fair diversion. + + For very awe, if so she shoots, + My hair upriseth from the roots, + And lo! I tremble in my boots! + + + + +IX. THE LINKS OF LOVE. + + + My heart is like a driver-club, + That heaves the pellet hard and straight, + That carries every let and rub, + The whole performance really great; + My heart is like a bulger-head, + That whiffles on the wily tee, + Because my love has kindly said + She'll halve the round of life with me. + + My heart is also like a cleek, + Resembling most the mashie sort, + That spanks the object, so to speak, + Across the sandy bar to port; + And hers is like a putting-green, + The haven where I boast to be, + For she assures me she is keen + To halve the round of life with me. + + Raise me a bunker, if you can, + That beetles o'er a deadly ditch, + Where any but the bogey-man + Is practically bound to pitch; + Plant me beneath a hedge of thorn, + Or up a figurative tree, + What matter, when my love has sworn + To halve the round of life with me? + + + + +X. SWORDS AND PLOUGHSHARES. + +PART I. PRESTO FURIOSO. + + + Spontaneous Us! + O my Camarados! I have no delicatesse as a diplomat, but I go blind + on Libertad! + Give me the flap-flap of the soaring Eagle's pinions! + Give me the tail of the British lion tied in a knot inextricable, + not to be solved anyhow! + Give me a standing army (I say 'give me,' because just at present we + want one badly, armies being often useful in time of war). + + I see our superb fleet (I take it that we are to have a superb fleet + built almost immediately); + I observe the crews prospectively; they are constituted of various + nationalities, not necessarily American; + I see them sling the slug and chew the plug; + I hear the drum begin to hum; + + Both the above rhymes are purely accidental and contrary to my + principles. + We shall wipe the floor of the mill-pond with the scalps of + able-bodied British tars! + I see Professor Edison about to arrange for us a torpedo-hose on + wheels, likewise an infernal electro-semaphore; + I see Henry Irving dead-sick and declining to play Corporal + Brewster; + Cornell, I yell! I yell Cornell! + + I note the Manhattan boss leaving his dry-goods store and investing + in a small Gatling-gun and a ten-cent banner; + I further note the Identity evolved out of forty-four spacious and + thoughtful States; + I note Canada as shortly to be merged in that Identity; similarly + Van Diemen's Land, Gibraltar and Stratford-on-Avon; + Briefly, I see Creation whipped! + + O ye Colonels! I am with you (I too am a Colonel and on the + pension-list); + I drink to the lot of you; to Colonels Cleveland, Hitt, Vanderbilt, + Chauncey M. Depew, O'Donovan Rossa and the late Colonel + Monroe; + I drink an egg-flip, a morning-caress, an eye-opener, a maiden-bosom, + a vermuth-cocktail, three sherry-cobblers and a gin-sling! + Good old Eagle! + + +PART II. INTERMEZZO DOLOROSO. + +[Allowing time for the fall of American securities to the extent of +some odd hundred millions sterling; also for the Day of Rest.] + + +PART III. ANDANTE AMABILE. + + Who breathed a word of war? + Why, surely we are men and Plymouth brothers! + Pray, what in thunder should we cut each other's + Carotids for? + + Merciful powers forefend! + For we by gold-edged bonds are bound alway, + Besides a lot of things that never pay + A dividend! + + Christmas! we cry thee _Ave_! + At such a time, when hearts with love are filled, + It seems inopportune for us to build + The needful navy. + + In fact in many a church + Uprise the prayer and supplicating psalm + That Heaven would keep our spreading Eagle calm + Upon his perch. + + Goodwill and peace and plenty! + Our leading congregations here agree + To vote for this arrangement, _nemine + Contradicente_. + + Greatly be they extolled + Who occupied the tabernacle-chair + And put it to the meeting then and there + And passed it solid! + + That print has also played + A useful part that sent an invitation + To Redmond to relieve the situation + (Answer prepaid). + + Say, Sirs, and shall we sever? + And mar the fair exchange of fatted steers, + Chicago pig, and eligible peers? + No! never, never! + + Shall gore be made to flow? + Like kindred Sohrabs shall we knock our Rustums, + And blast our beautiful McKinley customs? + Lord love us! no! + + Then, burst the sundering bar! + Our punctured pockets yearn across the ocean; + Till now we never had the faintest notion + How dear you are! + + O love of other years! + Wall Street, aweary for her broken bliss, + Waits like a loving crocodile to kiss + Again with tears! + + + + +XI. TO THE LORD OF POTSDAM. + +[On sending a certain telegram.] + + + Majestic Monarch! whom the other gods, + For fear of their immediate removal, + Consulting hourly, seek your awful nod's + Approval; + + Lift but your little finger up to strike, + And lo! 'the massy earth is riven' (Shelley), + The habitable globe is shaken like + A jelly. + + By your express permission for the last + Eight years the sun has regularly risen; + And editors, that questioned this, have passed + To prison. + + In Art you simply have to say, "I shall!" + Beethoven's fame is rendered transitory; + And Titian cloys beside your clever all- + -egory. + + We hailed you Admiral: your eagle sight + Foresaw Her Majesty's benign intentions; + A uniform was ready of the right + Dimensions. + + Your wardrobe shines with all the shapes and shades, + That genius can fix in fancy suitings; + For _levees_, false alarums, full parades + And shootings. + + But save the habit marks the man of gore + Your spurs are yet to win, my callow Kaiser! + Of fighting in the field you know no more + Than I, Sir! + + When Grandpapa was thanking God with hymns + For gallant Frenchmen dying in the ditches, + Your nurse had barely braced your little limbs + In breeches. + + And doubtless, where he roosts beside his bock, + The Game Old Bird that played the leading fiddle + Smiles grimly as he hears your perky cock- + -a-diddle. + + Be well advised, my youthful friend, abjure + These tricks that smack of Cleon and the tanners; + And let the Dutch instruct a German Boor + In manners. + + Nor were you meant to solve the nations' knots, + Or be the Earth's Protector, willy-nilly; + You only make yourself and royal Pots- + -dam silly. + + Our racing yachts are not at present dressed + In bravery of bunting to amuse you, + Nor can the licence of an honoured guest + Excuse you. + + But if your words are more than wanton play + And you would like to meet the old sea-rover, + Name any course from Delagoa Bay + To Dover. + + Meanwhile observe a proper reticence; + We ask no more; there never was a rumour + Of asking Hohenzollerns for a sense + Of humour! + + + + +XII. FROM THE LORD OF POTSDAM. + + + We, William, Kaiser, planted on Our throne + By heaven's grace, but chiefly by Our own, + Do deign to speak. Then let the earth be dumb, + And other nations cease their senseless hum! + Seldom, if ever, does a chance arise + For Us to pose before Our people's eyes; + But this is one of them, this natal day + Whereon Our Ancient and Imperial sway, + Which to the battle's death-defying trump + Welded the States in one confounded lump, + (As many tasty meats are blent within + The German sausage's encircling skin) + By Our decree is twenty-five precisely, + And, under Us (and God) still doing nicely. + Therefore ye Princelings, Plenipotentates, + And Representatives of various States, + A cool Imperial pint your Kaiser drains, + Both to Our 'more immediate' domains, + And to Our lands, Our isles beyond the sea, + Our World-embracing Greater Germany! + Let loose the breathings of Our Royal Band, + We give a rouse--_hoch! hoch!_--to HELGOLAND! + +[_Kaiserliche Kapelle_ plays: _O Helgoland! mein Helgoland!_ Air--_Die +Wacht am Rhein_.] + +WILLIAM, KAISER, continues:-- + + There are that languish on this festal day + Damned and impounded for _lese-majeste_; + We, William, in Our plentitude of grace, + Propose to pardon every hundredth case; + And though their sentence was no more than just + We offer each a copy of Our bust, + With option of a fine; but, be it known, + Whoso again shall deem his life his own, + Or find in Ours the faintest flaw or fleck, + God helping, We will hang him by the neck. + Yea, he shall surely curse his impious star + That dares to question Who or where We are! + Worship your Caesar, and (C.V.) your God; + Who spares the child may haply spoil the rod. + Many Our uniforms, but We are one, + And one Our empire over which the sun, + Careering on his cloud-compulsive way, + Sets once, but never more than once, a day. + The seas are Ours: world-wide upon the oceans + Our fleet commands the liveliest emotions; + Go where you will, you find Our German manners + Prevailing under other people's banners; + Go where you will, you cannot but remark + The cheap, but never nasty, German clerk; + Observe Our exports; do you ever see + Things made as they are made in Germany? + Always at home on Earth's remotest shores + _E.g._, among Our loved, low-German Boers, + Freely Our folk expectorate, and there + Our German bands inflame the balmy air; + Likewise again Our passionate bassoons + Tickle the niggers of the Cameroons; + Or others over whom Our Eagle flaps + In places not at present on the maps. + One more Imperial pint! your Kaiser drinks + To German intercourse with missing links! + Let loose the breathings of Our Royal Band, + We give--_hoch! hoch!_--Our glorious HINTERLAND! + +[_Kaiserliche Kapelle_ plays: _O Hinterland! mein Hinterland!_ (Air as +before); during which WILLIAM, KAISER, resumes his throne.] + + + + +XIII. 'THE SPACIOUS TIMES.' + +[On Drake's return from his filibustering expedition of 1580 the Queen +went on board his ship at Deptford, and after partaking of a banquet +conferred on him the honour of knighthood, at the same time declaring +herself mightily pleased with all that he had done.] + + + I wish that I had flourished then, + When ruffs and raids were in the fashion, + When Shakespeare's art and Raleigh's pen + Encouraged patriotic passion; + For though I draw my happy breath + Beneath a Queen as good and gracious, + The times of Great Elizabeth + Were more conveniently spacious. + + Large-hearted age of cakes and ale! + When, undeterred by nice conditions, + Good Master Drake would lightly sail + On little privateer commissions; + Careering round with sword and flame + And no pretence of polished manners, + He planted out in England's name + A most refreshing lot of banners. + + Blest era, when the reckless tar, + Elated by a sense of duty, + Feared not to face his country's Bar + But freely helped himself to booty; + Returning home with bulging hold + The Queen would meet him, much excited, + Pronounce him worth his weight in gold + And promptly have the hero knighted. + + No Extra Special, piping hot, + Broke out in unexpected Pyrrhics; + No Poet Laureate on the spot + Composed apologetic lyrics; + Transpiring slowly by-and-by, + The act was voted one of loyalty; + The nation winked the other eye, + And pocketed the usual royalty. + + Ere Reuter yet had found his range, + These trifles done across the ocean + Produced upon the Stock Exchange + No preternatural emotion; + Not yet the Kaiserlich I AM + Made winged words and then repented; + He wrote as yet no telegram, + Nor was, in fact, himself invented. + + No Justice Hawkins gauged the fault + Of irresponsible incursions; + The early Hawkins, gallant salt, + Knew well the charm of such diversions; + Men never saw that moving sight + When legal luminaries muster, + And very solemnly indict + A well-conducted filibuster. + + No Member had the hardy nerve + To criticise our depredations + As unadapted to preserve + The perfect comity of nations; + No High Commissioner would doubt + If brigandage was quite judicial; + Indeed we mostly did without + This rather eminent Official. + + No Ministry would care a rap + For theoretic arbitration; + They simply modified the map + To meet the latest annexation; + And so without appeal to law, + Or other needless waste of tissue, + The Lion, where he put his paw, + Remained and propagated issue. + + To-day we wax exceeding fat + On lands our roving fathers raided; + And blush with holy horror at + Their lawless sons who do as they did; + No doubt the age improves a lot, + It grows more honest, more veracious; + But, as I said, the times are not + Quite so conveniently spacious. + + + + +NOTE + + +To the Editors of _The World_ and _The National Observer_, and to the +Proprietors of _Punch_, I wish to express my thanks for their courtesy +in permitting me to republish these verses. + +O. S. + + * * * * * + + + + +The Battle of the Bays. + + _Eighth Edition._ + Price 3s. 6d. _net._ Fcap. 8vo. Price $1.25. + +SOME PRESS OPINIONS. + +"The new 'Rejected Addresses' of Mr. Owen Seaman are quite worthy to +be ranked with the classic volumes of Horace and James.... The thing +is done as well as it could be.... This little volume is _merum +sal_."--_The Spectator_. + +"Mr. Kipling has never been so nimbly caught before, for Mr. Seaman +has the art to reproduce his flute-notes as well as his big drum.... +Several of the miscellaneous pieces are among the very best humourous +poetry of this generation. We have laughed at nothing lately more than +at 'Ars Postera,' at 'A New Blue Book,' at 'To a Boy-Poet of the +Decadence,' and at 'To Julia in Shooting Togs.' But, after all, Mr. +Seaman's masterpiece up to date is certainly 'To the Lord of Potsdam.' +... This will live, or we are greatly mistaken, among the most +effective examples of historical satire-lyric."--_The Saturday +Review_. + +"It is certainly remarkable, in our dearth of great poetry, how good +of its sort the satiric verse of our day is--so good, in fact, that +nothing but the best will serve, and even the best, like Mr. Seaman's, +which in the day when Sir George Trevelyan was a wit would have taken +people's breath away, is apt to be treated as mere journalism.... But +really it is the most characteristic expression of our time, using the +accustomed forms of verse to point the neatest criticisms and the +slyest of epigrams.... Mr. Seaman's humourous imitation of Mr. +Swinburne, Sir Edwin Arnold, Sir Lewis Morris, Mr. Kipling, and the +rest, is in every case very funny."--_St. James's Gazette_. + +"The book abounds in excellent fooling and really wholesome satire, +the ingenuity and felicity of verse and expression giving it likewise +a high artistic value.... Quips and cranks of audacious wit, strokes +of a humour always sane and healthy, waylay the reader incessantly, +and leave him no peace for laughter."--_The Westminster Gazette_. + +"Mr. Seaman must be tired of being compared to Calverley and J. K. S., +but he is of their company, and, what is more, on their level. 'The +Battle of the Bays' ... bristles with points; it is brilliant, ... and +it has that easy conversational flow which is the one absolutely +necessary characteristic of good humourous poetry.... One charm of +writing such as Mr. Seaman's is that it makes us feel quite obliged to +poets whom we have never admired for being so good to parody."--_Pall +Mall Gazette_. + +"Mr. Owen Seaman has a very neat talent for parody.... The 'Ballad of +a Bun' is exceedingly funny, and ought to make even Mr. John Davidson +laugh.... All the imitations are good."--_The Times_. + +"His versatility and bright and ready wit are conspicuous in all his +work. As a parodist he is second to none, not even to Mr. Calverley, +if we may take the word of the reviewers.... Mr. Seaman cracks the +whip with consummate skill, and applies it with such naughty +precision, that even his victims must find it difficult to withhold +their admiration."--_The National Observer_. + + * * * * * + + +_BY THE SAME AUTHOR._ + +Horace at Cambridge + + _New and Revised Edition._ + Price 3s. 6d. _net._ Fcap. 8vo. Price $1.25. + +"To every university man ... this book will be a rare treat. But in +virtue of its humour, its extreme and felicitous dexterity of +workmanship both in rhyme and metre ... it will appeal to a far wider +public."--_Punch_. + +"We very cordially recommend Mr. Seaman's book ... to all who are +likely to care for verse which is not unworthy to be ranked with the +efforts of Calverley the immortal."--_The World_. + +"Mr. Seaman manages his ingenious metres with unfailing skill."--_The +Athenaeum_. + +"A genial cynic with a genuine smack of Bon Gaultier."--_St. James's +Gazette_. + +"The humour is bright and spontaneous."--_The Times_. + +"Mr. Seaman's book is never slipshod; it has the neatness, the +precision, the sparkle of its Latin namesake."--_The Spectator_. + + +Tillers of the Sand + + SMITH, ELDER & CO., London. 3s. 6d. + +"In the political sphere Mr. Seaman is at present without a +rival."--_The Globe_. + +"Taken as a whole, we are much mistaken if any better volume of +political verse has made its appearance since the days of the +_Rolliad_ and the _Anti-Jacobin_."--_The World_. + +"The best of the satirists on the other side is Mr. Owen Seaman, who +has touched off some of the weaknesses of the late government with +very happy and caustic humour."--_The Spectator_. + +"Mr. Seaman is own brother to Calverley, and in modern times there has +been nothing so good of its sort as 'Tillers of the Sand.'... Mr. +Seaman proves himself so brilliant a jester that it needs must be he +takes the jester's privilege of offending no one."--_The Speaker_. + +"One of the most accomplished writers of occasional verse +to-day."--_Bookman_. + +"It is all so good that passages are hard to choose."--_Scotsman_. + +"The author's rare quality--a capacity for satirizing one's political +opponents with a wit that leaves no wound."--Mr. JAMES PAYN in _The +Illustrated London News_. + +"Brilliant and inimitable."--_Chicago Daily News_. + + +In Cap and Bells + + _Fifth Edition._ + Price 3s. 6d. _net._ Fcap. 8vo. Price $1.25. + +"Here is no shouting, no banging of the bauble. The form of phrase, +the inflexion of voice, the dancing light of humour, make up the +motley which is the true jester's 'only wear'; and under his flashes +of merriment is a sober, sound philosophy. This, after all, is the +only kind of humour that lasts ... it is easy to appreciate, difficult +to acquire; and Mr. Owen Seaman, having acquired it with all the +felicity of good humour and art, stands practically alone among the +humourists of the hour.... His technical quality seems to strengthen +with every new volume."--Mr. ARTHUR WAUGH in _The St. James' +Gazette_. + +"Clean laughter, and scholarly wit; polished metre, and humorous +phrase--these are to me the essential characteristics for which I am +invariably glad to read Mr. Owen Seaman."--Mr. THEODORE COOK in +_Literature_. + +"The brilliant author of 'Cap and Bells' assumes, before the eyes of a +later generation, the mantle of Crawley, and does the same sort of +work more felicitously still."--_The Speaker_. + +"At the end of the volume Mr. Seaman gives agreeable evidence that, in +the domain of memorial and complimentary verse, he has the knack of +combining felicity of phrase with a wholesome avoidance alike of +adulation and excess. The 'In Memoriam' lines to Lewis Carroll, with +the graceful reference to Sir John Tenniel, are particularly +happy."--_The Spectator_. + +"Calverley had not, or did not show in his verses, Mr. Seaman's +critical acuteness and depth.... As a critic in the form of parody, +Mr. Seaman is without a rival.... Of his serious poems an ode to Queen +Wilhelmina is a very graceful accomplishment of a difficult +task."--Mr. G. S. STREET in _The Pall Mall Magazine_. + +"Mr. Seaman is what we may call a critic of mannerisms, and a very +keen critic to boot. His is a useful, not a merely destructive, +function. He is no wanton debaser of the poetic currency. One might +rather call him a touchstone of true merit in poetry."--_Daily +Chronicle_. + +"A new volume from the pen of Mr. Owen Seaman must needs be welcome. +He is the most accomplished versifier among all our jesters."--_The +Globe_. + +"The parodies in Mr. Seaman's new volume are wonderful examples of +this difficult art; the Stephen Phillips, the Alfred Austin, the +Watts-Dunton, and the George Meredith are faultless."--_Academy_. + +"Mr. Owen Seaman has already made his reputation as, perhaps, the +surest modern poet to make you laugh, and the nature of his new +collection of copies of verse cannot be better described than by +saying that it is well worthy of his hand.... The book is heartsome +and delightful all through."--_The Scotsman_. + +"The present vogue of Mr. Owen Seaman's delightful parodies is very +great."--_Liverpool Courier_. + + +JOHN LANE: The Bodley Head, London & New York. + + * * * * * + + + + +Transcriber Notes + +Typographical inconsistencies have been changed and are listed below. + +Hyphenation standardized and is also listed below. + +Archaic and variable spelling is preserved. + +Author's punctuation style is preserved, including some hyphenated +words that are integral to a poem. + +Passages in italics indicated by _underscores_. + +Passages in bold indicated by =equal signs=. + + +Transcriber Changes + +The following changes were made to the original text: + + Page 22: Was 'bellettrist' ('Heed not =belletrist= jargon.') + + Page 45: Was 'lachrimal' (Year that has painfully tickled the + =lachrymal= nerves of the Muses) + + Page 84: Added semi-colon after 'Pyrrhics' (Broke out in unexpected + =Pyrrhics;=) + + Page 88: Was 'applys' and 'precison' (Mr. Seaman cracks the whip + with consummate skill, and =applies= it with such naughty + =precision=, that even his victims must find it difficult + to withhold their admiration.) + + Page 89: Changed to single quotes (in modern times there has been + nothing so good of its sort as ='Tillers of the Sand.'=) + + Advertisements: Changed to single quotes (the dancing light of + humour, make up the motley which is the true + jester's ='only wear'=; and under his flashes of + merriment is a sober, sound philosophy.) + + Advertisements: Was 'Arthuh' (His technical quality seems to + strengthen with every new volume."--Mr. =ARTHUR= + WAUGH in _The St. James' Gazette_.) + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Battle of the Bays, by Owen Seaman + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE BATTLE OF THE BAYS *** + +***** This file should be named 29515.txt or 29515.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/2/9/5/1/29515/ + +Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Katherine Ward, and the +Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://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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