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diff --git a/29515.txt b/29515.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..4950f11 --- /dev/null +++ b/29515.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: 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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