[i]

THE MOTLEY MUSE

[ii]

BY THE SAME AUTHOR

[iii]

[iv]

[v]

THE MOTLEY MUSE

(RHYMES FOR THE TIMES)

BY

HARRY GRAHAM

AUTHOR OF 'RUTHLESS RHYMES FOR HEARTLESS HOMES'
ETC. ETC.

With Illustrations by
LEWIS BAUMER

Second Impression

NEW YORK
LONGMANS, GREEN, AND CO.
LONDON: EDWARD ARNOLD

1913

[All rights reserved]

[vi]

[vii]

TO
N. B.
WHO DESIGNED
THE COVER OF THIS BOOK
ITS CONTENTS
ARE
GRATEFULLY DEDICATED

[viii]

NOTE

Many of the verses published in this volume have appeared in the pages of 'The Observer,' 'The Pall Mall Gazette,' and 'The Graphic,' and are here reprinted by kind permission.

[ix]

CONTENTS

[xi]

FOREWORD

THE WORLD WE LAUGH IN!

['Sadness, once a favourite pose of poets, is no longer fashionable. Nowadays melancholy people are looked upon as depressing.'—The Gentlewoman.]

[1]

RHYMES FOR THE TIMES

'WHAT'S IN A NAME?'

[Lord Lincolnshire pointed out that Britain's glory has always depended very largely upon men whose names suggest no historical associations; upon the Browns and the McGhees, as well as upon the Willoughbys, the Talbots, and the Cecils.]

NOBODY'S DARLING![3]

['Nobody loves millionaires any more.'—Mr. Zimmerman.]

Time was when Society wooed me, The populace fawned at my feet; Men petted and praised and pursued me, My social success was complete. The pick of the Peerage, with smiles on their faces, Would sell me their family portraits and places. With stairs of pure marble below me, My stand as a host I would take, While guests (who, of course, didn't know me) The hand of my butler would shake, Averring, in phrases delightfully hearty, How much they enjoyed his agreeable party. [4] I gave away libraries gratis, Each village and town to adorn, Till with the expression 'Jam satis!' Lord Rosebery laughed them to scorn; And soon Mr. Gosse and the groundlings were snarling At one who must style himself Nobody's Darling! And now when I purchase their pictures,[5] Or bid for some family seat, Men pass most disparaging strictures, Discussing my action with heat; While newspapers term it a 'public disaster' Each time I endeavour to buy an Old Master! The country I rob of its treasures (By carting its ruins away!); I lessen all popular pleasures By spoiling the market, they say; And so they invoke Mr. George's assistance To tax the poor plutocrat out of existence!

ROSES ALL THE WAY[6]

['Mr. Frank Lascelles left London yesterday for Calcutta. As he entered the railway carriage at Victoria, Lady Jane Kenney-Herbert handed him a basket of roses.'—The Times.]

THE TRIUMPH OF JAM[8]

(With shamefaced apologies to the author of a beautiful poem)

[The Daily Mirror, in a leading article, deplored the fact that 'roly-poly' pudding, otherwise known as 'jam-roll,' was not to be obtained at fashionable West End restaurants.]

EGREGIOUS EASTBOURNE[10]

[A recent by-law of the Eastbourne Town Council renders the owner of any dog who barks upon the beach liable to a fine of forty shillings.]

SARAH OWEN[12]

[A provincial schoolmaster wrote to the Daily Mail to say that he had canvassed his employees on the subject of the Insurance Bill and found that out of forty-two domestics only one—'Sarah Owen, sewing-maid'—was in favour of the Servant Tax.]

Come, children, gather round and hark To my entrancing tale! For though you've heard of Joan of Arc, Of brave Grace Darling in her barque, Of Florence Nightingale, Not one of these such nerve displayed As Sarah Owen, sewing-maid! Her master ranged his forty-two Domestics in a row. As from his breast the Bill he drew, 'Shall this be borne,' he asked, 'by you?' Though forty-one said 'No!' 'My threepence will be gladly paid!' Said Sarah Owen, sewing-maid. [13] In vain his head the butler shook, The gard'ner's grins grew broad, The housemaids wore a scornful look, 'What imperence!' exclaimed the cook, The 'handy man' guffawed. Serene, intrepid, unafraid, Stood Sarah Owen, sewing-maid! And whether she was right or wrong,[14] She showed a dauntless will, A firm resolve, a purpose strong, Which move me like a battle-song And make my bosom thrill! The fame and name shall never fade Of Sarah Owen, sewing-maid!

THE LAST HORSED 'BUS[15]

STAGE SUPPORT[17]

[The prospective Unionist candidate for Hoxton, at his first meeting, was supported by Lord Shrewsbury, the Hon. Claude Hay, and Mr. George Robey.]

When I stand as 'Independent' next election, I shall vanquish my opponents, Smith and Brown. (Smith's a Unionist, in favour of Protection, Brown's a Radical Free Trader of renown.) But my triumph at the polls I shall attribute, I confess, To the men of light and leading whose assistance spelt success. Smith may marshal Austen Chamberlains and Carsons On his platform, for the populace to view; Brown may muster all his Nonconformist parsons, And a member of the Cabinet or two; I shall need no brilliant orators, no Ministers of State, If I only can rely on the support of Harry Tate! [18] Brown has posters: 'Vote for Brown and Old Age Pensions!' Smith has placards: 'Vote for Smith and Work for All!' I shall calmly call constituents' attentions To the pet of ev'ry London music hall, When I publish, as his message, on each flaming window-card: 'Every Vote you give to Johnson is a vote for Wilkie Bard!' [19] Can you wonder, then, that Independents rally Round a candidate to whom the Fates allot That his meetings shall be graced by Cinquevalli, And his policy endorsed by Malcolm Scott? Or that ev'ry one should mention—proud and humble, poor and rich— That a vote for Mr. Johnson is a vote for Little Tich?

SCRIBBLERS ALL![20]

[In the House of Commons, Lord Claud Hamilton referred to Mr. Birrell as a 'distinguished scribbler.']

THE LYONS CUBS[22]

['Waiting is a good, and often a lucrative profession, which must be freed from the hostile prejudice entertained by the ordinary British family. On the Continent and in America there is no such prejudice, and University men often find the profession worth entering.'—Evening Paper.]

'THE CRIES OF LONDON'[25]

THE MODEL FARM[27]

['If you want good milk, butter, cheese, beef, mutton, and bacon, keep the animals which supply these things amused—give them toys, in fact.'—The Daily Mirror.]

THE ADVENTURER[29]

['Gentleman, aged 26, seeks adventure; well up in finance, badminton, tennis, swimming, canoeing, bridge, and mechanics; banker's reference, if required.'—The Times.]

A PLEA FOR PONTO[31]

[Sir Frederick Banbury moved in the House of Commons:—'That in the opinion of this House no operation for the purpose of vivisection should be performed upon dogs.']

THE 'WASTER'[33]

['I think that in certain respects the 'Waster' is one of the great forces of Empire; it is in him that the spirit of the Elizabethan gentleman adventurer survives most vigorously. To me the waster is a peculiarly English product; in many respects he appeals to me more than any one in the community.'—Sir Herbert Tree.]

When others praise the pious, My own response is faint; I feel no morbid bias In favour of the saint. My pæans, rather, let me raise To laud the 'Waster' and his ways! I love to watch my hero, As through the streets he struts, With loud 'Pip! Pip!' or 'Cheer Oh!' Greeting his fellow-Nuts, And haunting ev'ry public bar To cadge a cocktail or cigar! [34] Each Saturday, at Brighton, How well he plays the rôle Of Admirable Crichton, At Grand or Metropole! The British Lion's whelp, indeed, True scion of the Bulldog Breed! The 'unco guid' may censure,[35] The prudes their eyebrows raise; His passion for adventure Recalls those spacious days When Britain's flag, from sea to sea, Was borne by 'Wasters' such as he! And soon 'twill be his mission, When fall'n on evil times, To bear the old tradition To far Colonial climes; The seeds of Empire there he'll sow. Meanwhile, I wish to Heav'n he'd go!

THE CHOICE[36]

[A well-known lady dog-fancier informed a representative of the Daily Mirror that, in case of fire, she would most certainly save her dog rather than her husband.]

ODE ON A DISTANT PROSPECT OF BOSTON SCHOOL[38]

(With apologies to Thomas Gray)

[Lord Tankerville was reported to have removed his son from Eton and sent him to school at Boston, U.S.A., where he would be known as Charles Bennet and be free from 'the kowtowing of a sycophantic crowd of pseudo-aristocrats who lick the boots of our young noblemen' at English schools!]

THE SPORTING SPIRIT[40]

['The emotional surprise and the unexpected suddenness in the rise of game require great accuracy, rapidity, and nerve control, and experience is in my favour that there are some who are improved in these essentials of good shooting by a little alcohol at lunch.'—Dr. T. Claye Shaw in the Times.]

It once was my habit to miss ev'ry rabbit At which I might happen to fire; I wasted each cartridge despatching some partridge To die in a neighbouring shire. By nature ungainly, I struggled, but vainly, A duck or a woodcock to kill, And cut a poor figure when pressing the trigger With far greater vigour than skill, Until, all at once, I discovered a tonic, And now (so to speak) my adroitness is chronic! A flask of old brandy I always keep handy, And, after an opportune nip, My wits are collected, my aim is corrected, My weapon with firmness I grip. I notice, untroubled, that all things are doubled;[41] Two outlines I hazily trace Of ev'ry cock-pheasant, and shooting grows pleasant When each single bird is a brace; Each teal has a twin, ev'ry black-cock a brother, And so I am bound to hit one or the other! [42] My methods may flurry those neighbours in Surrey Whose eyes I persistently wipe, And startle the Vicar whom once, when in liquor, I shot, in mistake for a snipe; At Bolton or Belvoir my faithful retriever Retrieves more than any dog there; No bag is so heavy as that which I levy At Welbeck, so what do I care? Sustained by old brandy, in covert or stubble, My fame (and my game) I can daily redouble!

PERSPECTIVE[43]

['It is sad and humiliating, but true, that our humanity is a matter of geography.'—The Pall Mall Gazette.]

'RAG-TIME'[45]

'THE PIPES'[47]

MODERN DANCING[49]

When the Waltz was first invented, Grandmamma was much upset; Long she mourned, and loud lamented, Staid Quadrille and Minuet. In her eyes (a bit oldfashioned) Waltzing called for condemnation, As a somewhat too empassioned Form of social relaxation! Grandma, with averted head, Swept her daughters home to bed! When the practice of 'reversing' Revolutionised the dance, Dear Mamma was heard aspersing Fashions introduced from France. With invectives harsh and stinging She abused those youthful dancers Who were over fond of 'swinging' Partners in the Kitchen Lancers; Ragging, as a ballroom sport, Made Mamma get up and snort! [50] Now, when Bunny-hugging habits Elevate maternal hairs, When our daughters act like rabbits, And our sons behave like bears; When the modern ballroom gang goes Through the complicated mazes Of those pseudo-Spanish Tangoes (Last of corybantic crazes!), We can only gaze aghast, Like our forbears in the past! But although each he (or she) grows[51] More and more inclined to romp, Emulating am'rous negroes In some Mississippi swamp, Recollect, when Gossip chatters, Though the best hotels taboo it, 'Tisn't what we dance that matters, But the way in which we do it! Chaperones may look askance: Honi soit qui mal y—dance!

THE PUBLIC INTEREST[52]

['We are entitled to use courteous or discourteous language, according as we think the public interest requires it.'—Lord Hugh Cecil.]

THE MILITANTS[54]

Though Man, who alas! is our master, Declares us unfit to be free, Ignoring the placards we playfully plaster On paling and pavement and tree; And though ev'ry journal, with cunning infernal, Our speeches refuses to quote, Our conduct bears witness to feminine fitness, And shows we are ripe for the Vote! On roofs and in cellars we've hidden, We've chained ourselves firmly to posts, Attended receptions, without being bidden, And heckled political hosts. With dog-whip and missile, with bell and with whistle, Our cause we have sought to promote; By scratching and squalling, by biting and brawling, We've proved ourselves fit for the Vote! [55] What tales of our feats could be written! Of damage we love to inflict, Of constables wounded with hatpins, and bitten, Of Cabinet Ministers kicked! Of how, when in Holloway, nought would we swallow Until it was forced down our throat, To prove to the nation by auto-starvation How worthy we were of the Vote! The gardens at Kew we've uprooted,[56] We've ruined the 'greens' on the links, The letters of innocent strangers polluted With poisonous acids and inks! Like lunatics turning to wrecking and burning, For others we care not a groat, But meditate gaily fresh outrages daily, To prove ourselves fit for the Vote!

PLAGUES AT THE PLAY[57]

['Last night even the postprandial conversation of some well-dressed members of the audience failed to neutralise the effect of the music, though they did their best.'—The Times.]

A SUGGESTION[59]

[Addressed to the lady or gentleman who had abstracted two pictures from the Royal Academy.]

THE MODEL MOTORIST[61]

[Sir Thomas Lipton, when stopped by the Chertsey police for 'scorching,' remarked: 'You have your duty to do, boys. I have always found you to be correct. I'm sorry.']

Ye murderous, motoring scorchers, With manners of Gadarene hogs, Inflicting unspeakable tortures On children and chickens and dogs; Alarming your fellows with hoots and with bellows, And filling their infants with terror, Their cattle stampeding, and never conceding That you could perhaps be in error, Who fall upon Fido and squash little Florrie, And hasten away without saying you're sorry! [62] O listen, I beg, con amore, Pray pause in your Juggernaut flight, And hark, while I tell you the story Of Lipton, that chivalrous knight! When charged with exceeding the limit of speeding By constables ambushed in Chertsey, He scorned to tell 'whoppers' or browbeat those 'coppers,' But, donning (with marvellous court'sy) The smile that he wears at a ball or a 'swarry,' Remarked: 'You are always correct, boys. I'm sorry!' With awe and respect did each 'cop' watch[63] A creature so rare, so unique, Who questioned no constable's stop-watch, Who showed neither temper nor pique, But said, 'Do your duty!' in tones rich and fruity, Admitting at once his transgression, Content to take their word, with never a swear-word, To leave an unpleasant impression; Exclaiming—his parents were Irish—'Begorry! ''Tis me that's the scorcher, and faith, bhoys, I'm sorry!' Then follow his brilliant example, Ye chauffeurs to 'joy-riding' prone, And seek by apologies ample For sins of the past to atone. Your pace do not quicken when dog or when chicken In 'bonnet' or brake gets entangled, Nor fly in a flutter, and leave in the gutter The man whom your motor has mangled; But after you've pounced like a hawk on your quarry, Just stop for a moment, and say that you're sorry!

THE PARISH PUMP[64]

(A BALLADE)

['The parish pump is the best friend of the teacher of history, and the man who, on the basis of Imperialism, sneers at the parish pump, does not know what he is talking about.'—Canon Masterman.]

POLICE COURT SENSE[66]

['The evidence that I heard totally failed to satisfy me that he was drunk at all in what, for want of a better definition of the term, I may call the Police Court sense.'—Mr. Chester Jones.]

When Uncle Edward comes to dine, He drinks such quantities of wine, You never know How far he'll go, Or what he'll leave unsaid; He frequently insults his host, And quotes things from the Winning Post, Until, with sighs, His friends arise And bear him off to bed. But as they leave him in his bunk, With what a joy intense They realise he is not drunk— In the Police Court sense! [67] He played bezique with me, one day, To find that, at the close of play, He'd lost each game; The total came To three pounds seventeen. He never paid a cent of that, And took away my new top-hat, Leaving behind A hideous kind Of gibus, old and green. But still it filled me with relief, Observing his offence, To think that he was not a thief— In the Police Court sense! The details of his private life,[68] The way he treats his luckless wife, Make all aware That he can care For nothing but himself; But what on earth is she to do, Though snubbed and beaten black and blue? To sue, of course, For a divorce Would be a waste of pelf. Yet, all the same, my aunt avows, It saves her much expense To feel she has a faithful spouse— In the Police Court sense!

[69]

CLUB CANTOS

CANTO I

THE ATHENÆUM

Dignified, austere, infestive, Stands the stately Athenæum, With an atmosphere suggestive Of a mausoleum. Freezing silence reigns within (You can hear the falling pin!) And the punster points with pride To the frieze you get outside! Here the Bishop, with his nether Limbs in leggings swathed demurely (Hatbrim fastened by a tether To the crown securely), Buttonholes some friendly Duke, To discuss the Pentateuch, Or abstracts (with absent mind) All th' umbrellas he can find. [70] Here each great and famous Briton Snored and slumbered almost daily: Thackeray and Bulwer Lytton, Dickens and Disraeli. Trollope through this doorway stept, In that chair Macaulay slept, While, with cotton in his ears, Herbert Spencer snubbed his peers. Here our scientific pedants[71] Write their Monographs on Rabbits Or their studies of the Red-ant's Socialistic habits. Here the statesman threshes out Themes of Philosophic Doubt, While the Laureate scours each shelf For a rhyme to 'Guelph' and 'self.' Poet, painter, politician, Throng this Hall of the Immortals; Sophist, sage, and statistician Cross these pompous portals. Here the pundits of the State Herd with the Episcopate; Scientist and learned lord Mix with Mr. H-mphr-y W-rd. If the roof fell in, ah me! Where would Mother England be?

CANTO II[72]

WHITE'S

CANTO III[74]

THE BACHELORS'

CANTO IV[76]

THE GARRICK

If for solitude you feel a partiality, If you chance to be unsociably inclined, If (like other men of British nationality) You abominate the presence of your kind; If you take your pleasures glumly And delight in dining dumbly, And if table-talk's a thing you nearly die of; If you look with detestation Upon Gen'ral Conversation, Then the Garrick is a club you should fight shy of! If you hunger for companionship and jollity, If you much prefer to chatter while you eat, If you condescend at moments to frivolity, And will fraternise with any one you meet; If your interest is chronic In the art called histrionic, If your passion for the drama's hot and strong, too; If you welcome its professors Telling tales about their 'dressers,' Then the Garrick is a club you should belong to! [77] If you come here (say) at supper-time on Saturdays, You will meet with all the patrons of the stage (Though the place is not so popular, these latter days, As it was before 'week-ends' became the rage). Here each notable 'first-nighter,' Critic, journalist, and writer, Sprinkles pepper on this club's especial oyster, And you hear a well-known jurist Or some literary purist Telling anecdotes unsuited to the cloister! Here you'll notice, too, a perfect portrait-gallery[78] Of those mummers who immortal have become, Though they earned, no doubt, a less prodigious salary Than the moderns who more lucratively mum. On these walls they all assemble, Garrick, Matthews, Irving, Kemble, Men who knew what the traditions of the stage meant, In the days when ev'ry mummer Wore a sealskin coat in summer And would scorn a common music-hall engagement! 'Tis a club for ev'ry section of the laity, Where the Services, the Press, the Bench, the Bar, Find delight in S-m-r H-cks's verbal gaiety And the anecdotal wit of C-m-ns C-rr. Here the members who are crafty Seek a seat that isn't draughty— In the anteroom or lounge you may discern 'em— And postprandially cluster, Gaining dignity and lustre From the presence of a B-ncr-ft and a B-rnh-m!

CANTO V[79]

THE AUTOMOBILE

CANTO VI[81]

BROOKS'S

How soft those whiskered waiters tread, Their dishes dexterously handing! 'Twould seem (as some one aptly said) As though a nobleman lay dead Upon an upper landing, In such tranquillity and quiet Do members masticate their diet! Yes, here is peace, that 'perfect peace,' With loved ones safely at a distance, Which men demand who seek release From cares that cause the brow to crease And poison the existence; Peace, comatose—nay, cataleptic— Dear to the dotard and dyspeptic! [82] The special feature of the place Is that it has no special feature; Its tone is that of frigid grace With which the Briton loves to face Each human fellow-creature. Here sire meets son, or brother brother, And neither need address the other! Within this dignified retreat, From Government or Opposition, The Whigs of all opinions meet, Eyeing each other, as they eat, With looks of dumb suspicion. Here Unionist regards Home Ruler[83] With feelings daily growing cooler. Through Brooks's battered ballot-box His way to fame a man may well win, Who sits where Sheridan and Fox Discoursed of dice or fighting-cocks With Wilberforce and Selwyn; Where modern wits and legislators Converse with no one but the waiters!

CANTO VII[84]

'THE BEEFSTEAK'

CANTO VIII[87]

THE TRAVELLERS'

Though clubs without number are suited to slumber, How few (as has often been noted) To rest and reposing, to dreaming and dozing, Are quite so completely devoted As that which is labelled, in language poetic, The final resort of the peripatetic! Here peace may be relished, in rooms unembellished By portraits, by prints or engravings, On sofas of leather, designed altogether To satisfy somnolent cravings, Where, clutching the Times or the Chronicle tightly, A member may slumber in public politely. A subtle aroma, conducive to coma, Which renders the coffee-room pleasant, Proves gratefully cloying to diners enjoying A snooze 'twixt the fish and the pheasant. The air, as it were, is with somnolence seething, And nothing is heard but their stertorous breathing! [88] No card-games are played here, and even 'Old Maid' here Its votaries find uninviting; You might get a quorum for (say) 'Snip-snap-snorem,' But 'Patience' is deemed too exciting; While rubbers of Bridge (should you chance to require some) With partners all 'sleeping' prove terribly tiresome! These precincts hypnotic provide a narcotic,[89] And trav'llers (all subterfuge scorning) Curl up on their quarters, and tell the hall-porters To call them next Saturday morning; And even explorers, their rambles arrested, Become as 'Club-footed' as some one suggested!

CANTO IX[90]

'THE BATH'

[93]

SONGS IN SEASON

NEW YEAR'S EVE

FEBRUARY[95]

['Really, there must be something rather fine in the English character that enables it to triumph over the English climate.'—The Pall Mall Gazette.]

SPRING[97]

When the hand of ev'ry Briton, 'spite of glove or woolly mitten, By the frost severely bitten, grows as frigid as a stone, When he scuttles like a lizard through the bitter biting blizzard, Which benumbs his very gizzard and which chills him to the bone; When the constable stands scowling, where the hurricane is howling, Or goes miserably prowling, with no shelter from the storm, And the working-man, half-fuddled, jug to bosom closely cuddled, In each public-house is huddled, in his efforts to get warm; Then the poet (known as 'minor') deems it suitable to sing That there's nothing much diviner than the pleasures of the Spring! [98] When the maiden, matinéeing, from some playhouse portals straying (Where her favourite is playing), grows as crusty as a crab, While her fiancé ungainly—so unlike dear Harry Ainley!— In the snow is seeking vainly (ah! how vainly!) for a cab; When he cusses and she fusses, as they note how full each 'bus is[99] Of that crowd of oafs and hussies it refuses to disgorge, Till they hail some passing taxi, with expressions wild and waxy (Like the language Leo Maxse always uses of Lloyd George)! With her windswept skirt she battles, to his hat he tries to cling, While the poet sweetly prattles of the pleasures of the Spring! Though I hate to be pedantic, and it may seem unromantic, I am driven nearly frantic when I hear the praises sung Of those ruthless vernal breezes which engender coughs and sneezes And disseminate diseases in the ranks of old and young. So, although it sounds like treason, when I celebrate this season, I will mix my rhymes with reason, and substantiate, I trust, That there's nought so uninviting, so depressing, and so blighting, As the time of which I'm writing with such genuine disgust. As I hover round the fender, and for fuel loudly ring, I decline to see the splendour or the witchery of Spring!

SPRING-CLEANING[100]

['The only way to get workmen out of the house is to move in oneself.'—The Bromide's Handbook.]

'ROYAL ASCOT'[102]

Ho! find me my faithful field-glasses (The kind with collapsible joints); Ho! bring me my bundle of passes, My pencils (the ones that have points); Ho! give me my 'topper,' The head-dress that's proper For meetings where Royalties muster; Put scent on my 'hanky' (That's quite enough, thankye!) And polish my boots with a duster; That so I may venture, with grace and composure, To mix with my peers in the Royal Enclosure! At Ascot, where beautiful dresses Enrapture the masculine gaze, How oft I've indulged in excesses Of hock-cup and cold mayonnaise! How oft in the Paddock (Though squashed like a haddock) Each thoroughbred's heels I've eluded![103] What fortunes I've flung to The Ring, which they've clung to, Those touts who my pockets denuded! What niggardly odds did those bookmakers lay me! (How often have ladies forgotten to pay me!) [104] At Ascot, that popular function, Society leans on the rails, And sport is enjoyed in conjunction With lobsters and underdone quails! While Rank and while Fashion Regard with compassion The antics of clown or of nigger, But one imperfection Appears, on inspection, This party to mar or disfigure: 'Twould be the most perfect of meetings and courses, If only——if only there weren't any horses!

'ROSES'[105]

A MEMORY OF 'ALEXANDRA DAY'

(With apologies to Wordsworth)

THE END OF THE SEASON[107]

THE COCKNEY OF THE NORTH[109]

(With apologies to W. B. Yeats)

'THE TWELFTH'[111]

NOVEMBER[113]

THE CYNIC'S CHRISTMAS[115]

Christmas is here! Let us deck ev'ry dwelling With evergreen branches and mistletoe boughs! With thoughts philanthropic our bosoms are swelling, No shadow should darken our brows! (But, alas! when we're fixing festoons to the ceiling, The ladders we stand on are apt to give way, When a desolate feeling comes over us stealing; 'Tis hard to be merry and gay! And it's difficult, too, to feel thoroughly jolly When painfully punctured by pieces of holly!) Christmas is here! Let the plums and the suet Be mingled once more in ungrudging supplies! Let the lover of punch hasten swiftly to brew it! Make ready a score of mince-pies! (But, alas! let us not be completely forgetful Of how indigestion is fostered and bred, How a surfeit of food makes the family fretful, While alcohol flies to the head; Lest a fortnight devoted to over-nutrition Entail a recourse to the nearest physician!) Christmas is here! Ev'ry mother shall borrow[116] Her spouse's best stockings to tie to the cot Of the baby, who hopes they'll contain, on the morrow, Drums, trumpets, and goodness knows what! (But it's rather a blow when the footwear allotted To hang full of goodies and toys through the night, Is returned to its owner, misshapen and clotted With toffee and Turkish Delight; While a drum is a bore if you constantly thump it, And life can be poisoned by sounds from a trumpet!) Christmas is here! All our nephews and nieces Troop happily home to delight us at Yule! We rejoice when the holiday season releases The inmates of college and school! (But perhaps when at dawn they awake us by shouting[117] 'When Shepherds'—a hymn which they sing out of tune— They may furnish some fifty good reasons for doubting If holidays are such a boon; And even the kindliest relative wearies Of constantly answering juvenile queries!) Christmas is here! Little children excited Make domiciles vocal with shrieks of applause, As they ask that the candle-decked fir-tree be lighted, In honour of kind Santa Claus! (But, alas! for the person of years known as 'riper'! By clatter and racket his nerves are unstrung; He is followed about, like a second Pied Piper, By droves of the clamorous young! All in vain does he seek for some haven of quiet; No room in the building is free from their riot!) Christmas is here! Let us load our relations With presents expensive and offerings rare, And assume, as we lavish our tips and donations, A noble and bountiful air! (But, alas! when we've purchased the costliest jewel For dear Cousin Jane, and despatched it by post, And she sends in return a small mat, worked in crewel, And worth eighteenpence at the most, Shall we say, recollecting the gift that we bought her, 'Dear Jane is a trifle more dear than we thought her'?) Christmas is here! Let us go serenading,[118] In glees and in madrigals raising our voice, In the snow of the street, 'neath your windows parading, O maidens divine of our choice! (But we mustn't forget how our last Christmas carols Were spoilt by your parents' inhuman attacks, When they brought out their shot-guns and emptied both barrels Bang into the smalls of our backs! If one justly expects some applause and encoring, A ball in the back is excessively boring!) Christmas is here! At a season so sprightly We banish all thoughts about mundane affairs, And attempt to be gay and to smile fairly brightly, In spite of our worries and cares. (But financial embarrassments mortify most men Whose hearts a prognostic of bankruptcy grips, When the dustmen and milkmen, policemen and postmen, Demand their habitual tips!) ·    ·    ·    ·    ·    · Then tell me—and grateful I'll be to you, very— Oh, tell me why Christmas was ever called 'Merry'!

ENVOI[119]

[All work, says a well-known humorist, is an unutterable bore. All that concerns the writer are the cheques his work brings him in.]

Printed by T. and A. Constable, Printers to His Majesty
at the Edinburgh University Press

FOOTNOTES:

TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES:

Inconsistencies in spelling and hyphenation have been retained from the original.

Punctuation has been corrected without note.