Part 3
My dear Sir,-- When men have nightmares, they dream about you. I myself have been chased over the tops of pinnacles By flaming-eyed Panhards and Durkopps In my sleep. Nor is this all, For if one brings oneself To read reports of the proceedings of police courts One finds that the average citizen Gets more or less chased by you sir, In his waking moments. The Police I know, sir, seldom speak the truth: They remember so well the day When a horseless carriage had to be taken through the street At the speed of a funeral march, And with a red flag in front of it, That the spectacle of an affable motorist Bowling through a Surrey village To the tune of six miles an hour Shocks ther imagination, And they believe for the rest of their natural lives That the affable motorist aforesaid Must have been travelling At the rate of anything from 60 to 600 miles per minute. Hence, my dear motorist, It comes to pass that you are afforded so many opportunities For airing your eloquence and the fatness of your purse Before the police magistrates. In my opinion it seems just possible That the real trouble lies in the fact That you, my dear sir, do actually Go through villages at a very low speed, And that really the best thing you can do Would be to make a point of going through them At the highest speed consistent With the safety of your own person. For if you did this, No policeman of my acquaintance would be able to catch you, Hence you would never be fined. I have been out of sympathy with motor cars Right up to the other night. The other night I had the felicity to take a small trip on one. The motorist would fain have driven me to my house, Which is half an hour's cab drive from Charing Cross. He offered to do the distance in ten minutes And started stirring up his petroleum, But I said "No. Let us go to the Marble Arch." We went through the Mall, to Hyde Park Corner, to South Kensington, to Paddington, Into the Edgware Road, and so to the Marble Arch; Time, at the outside, 15 min. I am willing to admit That we went down certain streets quite rapidly, What time the policemen at odd corners stared stupidly, And fumbled for their note-books. But, as a result of that trip, my dear sir, I have become an enthusiastic motorist. I am convinced that speed and wind and the smell of petroleum mixed Is the only thing which can be considered worth living for. And if you happen to know anybody Who would be willing to take A typewriter and a pair of skates (not much worn) In exchange for a Durkopp racer, Kindly communicate with me.
TO NEXT CHRISTMAS
My dear Next Christmas,-- It is an excellent journalistic thing, Not to say a poetical thing, To be first in the field. Behold me, therefore, advancing At the head of that motley army Which will inevitably hail you When your time comes. For your predecessor, My dear Next Christmas, I cannot say much. He came in with several thousand inches of rain; He went out on a watery moon. There was turkey as usual, Pudding as usual, Mistletoe as usual, Peace on earth as usual. There were also the waits, The young folks, The postman, The dustman (No connection with the scavengers), And the turncock. We had a merry day. Half the world pretended to be happy, The other half pretended to be bored. The festivities, I understand, Are still being kept up. There is a ping-pong tournament at the Queen's Hall And a children's banquet At the Guildhall on Tuesday evening; Not to mention Mr. Dan Leno at Drury Lane And Mr. De Wet at the Tweefontein. It is all very cheerful And very inspiriting. All the same, Let us not repine: Christmas comes but once a year, And it will come again, I fear. This couplet, of course. My dear Next Christmas, Is not intended to be Disrespectful to you; It is inserted simply For the sake of effect. For I never miss an opportunity Of bursting into rhyme. When the way is plain before me. My dear Next Christmas, Do not be discouraged, Come next year by all means; If I said "Don't come" You would come just the same. Therefore, I say "Come," And I trust, my dear Next Christmas, That when you do come You will bring us a little luck. Ring out the old, as it were, And ring in the new; Let candied peel Be a trifle cheaper; Let the war be settled To the satisfaction of both parties; Let the book trade flourish; Let the Income-tax be reduced: Let there be a fine Christmas Eve And dry waits, And a little skating next morning; Let there be peace and plenty, A pocket full of money, And a barrel full of beer, And all other good things, Including a free and enlightened Press, And a strong demand For seasonable poetry. My dear Next Christmas, Here is my hand, With my heart in it. Till we meet again-- As Mr. Hall Caine says-- Addio.
TO THE TRIPPER
My dear Sir, or Madam,-- When James Watt, Or some such person, Had the luck To see a kettle boil, He little dreamed That he was discovering you, Otherwise he would have let his kettle boil For a million million years Without saying anything about it. However, James Watt Omitted to take cognisance of the ultimate trouble, And here you are. And here, alas! you will stay, Till our iron roads are beaten into ploughshares, And Messrs. Cook & Sons are at rest. "When I was young, a single man, And after youthful follies ran" (Which, strange as it may seem, is Wordsworth) Your goings to and fro upon the earth, And walkings up and down thereon, Were limited by the day trip. For half-a-crown You went to Brighton, Or to Buxton and Matlock, Or Stratford-on-Avon, As the case may be. A special tap of ale And a special cut of 'am Were put on for your delectation; You sang a mixture of hymns And music-hall songs On your homeward journey, And there was an end of the matter. But nowadays there is no escape from you. The trip that was over and done In twenty-four hours at most Has become a matter Of "Saturday to Monday at Sunny Saltburn," "Ten days in Lovely Lucerne," And "A Visit to the Holy Land for Ten Guineas." Wherever one goes On this wide globe There shall one find Your empty ginger-beer bottle and your old newspaper; The devastations, Fence-breakings, And flower-pot maraudings Which you once reserved for noblemen's seats Are now extended to the Rigi, The Bridge of Sighs, Mount Everest, And the deserts of Gobi And Shamo. Indeed, I question whether it would be possible For one to traverse The trackless forests of Mexico Or "the dreary tundras of remote Siberia," Or to put one's nose Into such an uncompromising fastness as Craig Ell Achaie (Which is the last place the Canadian Pacific Railway made And which may not be properly spelled) Without coming upon you Picnicking in a spinny, And prepared to greet all and sundry With that time-honoured remark, "There's 'air," Or some other Equally objectionable ribaldry. Well, my dear Tripper, Time is short, And poets fill their columns easily, So that I must not abuse you any more. You are part of the Cosmos, And as such I am bound to respect you; But, by Day and Night, I wish That James Watt Had taken no notice Of his boiling kettle!
TO THE GLASGOW MAGISTRATES
(_On their Proposal to Banish Barmaids_)
May it please your Worships, For years past, Glasgow has stood in the forefront As a city given over to the small-pox And magisterial reform. It is, I believe, An exceedingly well-managed city: In fact, it appears to be managed Out of all reasonable existence; Hence, no doubt, it comes to pass That it was lately visited By a smart sample of the plague. I have not the smallest doubt that your Worships Are sincere and clean-thinking men. I believe that you do what you do do, so to speak, Out of sheer public spirit And with a view to bettering the condition Of the city over which you preside. In other words, I impute no motives: That is to say, no base motives. But, my dear Worships, Why, in the name of Heaven, would you abolish The harmless, necessary barmaid? Have you never been young? Have you never known the tender delight Of whiling away a morning With your elbow on the zinc And threepennyworth of Bass before you? What, may I ask your Worships, Is Bass without a barmaid? I grant that, taking them all in all, The barmaids of Scotland Are not what you might term An altogether bewitching lot. Years ago, when I was young and callow, Fate threw me into the propinquity Of a lady of this ilk; She hailed from Glasgow, And she was not beautiful; On the other hand, I was young. And, out of an income which was even slenderer then Than it is now, I purchased for that dear lady of the North Many bottles of perfume, Many pairs of kid gloves, And a Prayer Book or so; And, when I had consumed innumerable Basses At her altar, And the time had, as I thought, become ripe, I offered her matrimony, To which she replied, in limpid Doric: "Gang awa hame to yer mither." That, my dear Worships, Is Glasgow! If you can weed out of Glasgow All young females Possessed of this particular kind of temperament, I am not so sure But that you would have my blessing. On the other hand, I am free to admit That I hae my doots as to your capacity for so doing. The perfume-bottle, The kid gloves, The Prayer Book And "Na, na, na, I winna," Will always remain the prerogatives Of the Glasgae lassies, If I know anything of them. Also, my dear Worships, One thing is absolutely certain, That, if the magistrates of all the cities In the United Kingdom Would take the step you have taken, We should have gone a very considerable way Towards solving the drink problem, And putting Sir Michael Hicks-Beach Into a fearful hole for money.
P.S.--I hate Scotch men, But I sometimes think that Scotch women Are rather bonnie.
TO A BOOKSELLER
My dear Sir,-- "There lies a vale in Ida Lovelier Than all the valleys Of Ionian hills." I take it That this is a geographical fact. Anyway it is Tennyson, And I quote it In order that you may perceive That I have some acquaintance With the higher walks of Literature, And am therefore a man Of entirely different build from yourself. I was born a poet, And have stuck to my trade Unto this last. Possibly you were born a bookseller. I am willing to give your credit for it, But I doubt it all the same, For I often think the average bookseller Must have been born a draper. The other day I had occasion to do a little book-buying. It was my first essay In what I now believe to be An altogether elegant and delightful form Of intellectual recreation. Of course, I went into a shop: From the yawning Cimmerianity at the back of that shop There came unto me swiftly and in large boots A fat youth. He bowed, and he bowed, and he bowed. "I want a good edition of Shelley," I said. And he replied straightway "Ninepenceshillingnetoneandsixpencenethalfa- crownnettwoandeightpencethreeandnine- pencefiveshillingsnethalfaguineaandkindly- stepthisway." I said, "Thank you, But I want Shelley, Not egg-whisks." Whereat he smiled and banged under my nose A heavy volume, Bound like a cheap purse, And murmured, "There you are, The best line in the market, Two-and-eight." And because I opened it, And looked disconsolately at the stodgy running-titles And the entrancing red-line border, He cast upon me eyes of contempt and disgust, And told me that I could not expect Kelmscott Press and tree-calf At the money. In fact, that fat youth Annoyed me. He Was A bookseller. Ah, my dear Sir, When I reflect that whatever I may write, No matter how excellent it may be, Must ultimately pass into the hands Of that fat youth And become to him Something At ninepenceashillingneteighteenpencetwoandsix- netthreeandninefiveshillingsnetorhalfaguinea- andkindlystepthisway The spirit of my fathers quails within me, I know that authorship Is a trade for fools. Go to! Ninepence me no ninepences, Two-and-sixpence me no nets, Bring yourself at once To your logical conclusion, And next time I call upon you For Shelley, Sell him to me, As you appear to sell "Temporal Power." By the pound Avoirdupois.
TO THE DECEASED WIFE'S SISTER
My dear Deceased Wife's Sister,-- (The wife of my bosom being still happily amongst us, The above, As the learned might say, Is a misnomer. You, on the other hand, Are a Miss ----, And I would not marry you To save myself from boiling oil. If I had wanted you I could have had you in the beginning. And if I had married you The wife of my bosom Would have been aunt to her own children, as it were. And in the event of your demise She would also have been My deceased wife's sister-- Which is at once inconsequential and peculiar. A man cannot marry his deceased wife's sister Till she is dead. This is quite wrong. In my humble opinion It is also quite right. Anyway, we will close this parenthesis With the usual sign, And proceed along the primrose path Of business) As I have already remarked In my usual quaint way, A man cannot marry His deceased wife's sister Until she is dead. (By "she" of course I mean the man's wife.) The bishops declare That he cannot marry her anyhow (By "he" I mean the man, And by "her" of course The bishops mean The man's deceased wife's sister. I desire to be explicit on these points In order that we may avoid Ambiguity.) Well, my dear deceased wife's sister (Always remembering that Mrs. ---- is still alive), What is your view of matters? Do you really wish to marry me or not? Have you any opinions about Lord Hugh Cecil? If so, Kindly state them. Was he or was he not justified in demanding On Wednesday night That the word "Shame" Be put upon the record? If so, why not? If not, why so? My dear deceased wife's sister, Do not let us get confused. Let us clear our minds of Cecil. After all is said You are the Auntie of my children, And the great-niece of my wife's great-uncle, Not to say the sister-in-law of my children's father. Come along, Here are ducats, A ring, And a Canadian parson, Let us get married at once. Of course it is so sudden. It always is. And we have forgotten about Mrs. ---- We always do. But I tell you here and now, And in good set terms, My dear deceased wife's sister, That if I wish to marry Either you or any more of your mother's daughters (Which Heaven forbid), I shall go to Canada or Australia And marry 'em.
TO THE CHANCELLOR OF THE EXCHEQUER
(_Before his Retirement_)
My dear Sir Michael Hicks-Beach,-- The devotion of one's life To the service of the Muses And the neglect of golden opportunities, Is not without its compensations, One of the chief of them being That the devotee can look into the eyes Of the most rapacious of Chancellors of the Exchequer And smile. For my own part, dear Sir Michael, By the writing of Odes, And general inattention to business, I am able to knock up a precarious one hundred and seventy-five pounds per annum; On one hundred and sixty pounds of that sum I am always careful to claim exemption, Which leaves a taxable balance of fifteen pounds. Out of this balance, my dear old friend, you are welcome to take fifteen shillings, Or twenty-three and fourpence ha'penny, Or twenty-seven and sixpence farthing, Or any other sum that you think might come in handy. Indeed, in all the circumstances (And without prejudice), I should not be greatly upset If you took the lot. For well I wot That the late War Has cost more than the price of a row of houses, And that it is my duty, as a full-blooded patriot, To pay, and pay cheerfully; And particularly so Since it is not due for a month or so. Ah, my dear Chancellor, Who fears Black Michael Must himself be black. They call you Black because you want a lot of money; I call them black because they've got it. However, this is not a Ruskinian oration, But an Ode, And I shall therefore proceed to give you a few tips As to legitimate methods of raising the wind. Judging by your recent efforts, You appear to be short of ideas. Here you are. Put sixpence a hundred on cigars. "See What You Save" Will see me through somehow; Besides, I never smoke cigars. Put a bit more on all sorts of wines and liqueurs, Excepting Sauterne and Benedictine (Of which I am particularly fond); Put a bit more on beer, And sixpence a pound on arsenic (As a rule I do not take either); Tax railway tickets (I invariably travel on "passes"); Tax perambulators (My sons and heirs can all walk); Tax sky-signs (Like the Omar Khayyam Club, I never advertise); Tax bicycles (I abhor exertion); Tax gold and gem jewellery (I never keep it); Tax fiction And "Fourth enormous" editions (We shall then hear less about them) Abolish the free breakfast-table (I invariably begin the day with lunch); Also tax ground-rents (I am not the Duke of Bedford); And seize all the unclaimed bank balances (None of which by any possibility Can be mine). In fact, my dear Sir Michael, Tax and seize whatever you like. The opulent, and the well-to-do, Not to mention the rascally working classes, Will have to put up with it.
TO THE COMMON GOLFER
My dear Common Golfer,-- The game you affect Is a great game Played by yourself And all the crowned heads of Europe, Not to mention all the fat persons who desire to bant, All the thin persons who desire to become Vigorous and muscular, as it were, All the clerks who desire to pass for dukes, And all the dukes who relish the society of clerks. It is a great game: The people who play it are not the fault of the game. It is also a good game. If I am not mistaken, It is a game that originally came out of Scotland; Therefore it must be a good game. For everything that comes out of Scotland is good, Even the Scot. And golf being a great and good game I do not see any tremendous reason Why you, my dear Common Golfer, Should not engage in it if you so choose. On the other hand, I wish from the bottom of my heart That you did not engage in it. I know a bank Whereon the wild thyme blows (Or ought to blow): Oft of a pleasant summer morn Have I taken a cheap ticket To a station which is not far from that bank, And there (on the bank, that is to say) reclined me What time I looked up into the blue dome, And watched the lazy-pacing clouds, And flicked away the midges, And wished my name was Corydon, And remembered bits of Keats And bits of Herrick And bits of business, And so forth. Oft, I say, have I done these things; But of late I no longer do them, Inasmuch as my bank Has become (if I may so term it) Golf-ridden. The other day I repaired to the said bank On rural musings bent. What did I find? Why, my dear old thymy bank Was in the possession Of half a dozen gross fellows in red coats, Thy had pipes in their mouths, And a jar of beer in their midst, And they were actually talking and laughing In the most uproarious fashion. I heard one of them say "Why did Arthur Bawl-Fore?" And the others thought hard, And trifled with their brassies and things, And could not make answer. O, my dear Common Golfer, _You_ were of that party; You _were_; You are always of such parties, You are always sitting On other people's thymy banks, And saying, "Why did So-and-so so-and-so?" And depleting village public-houses of good beer, And turning whole village populations into caddies, And dotting the landscape with your red coats, And generally appropriating the fair face of Nature. I cannot stop you, my dear Common Golfer, I cannot, O I cannot! Would that I could. O would that I could! In which case, perhaps, I wouldn't. No, my dear boy, Rural England is yours, Also the sea-side, Take them, old man, take them; I hand them over to you with the best heart in the world. Take them--they are yours-- And excuse these tears.
TO MR. PIERPONT MORGAN
Dear Mr. Pierpont Morgan,-- I hasten to give you a hearty British welcome. Come to my arms; I am in the Trust line myself-- That is to say, I used to be Before people started putting up announcements To the effect that "Poor Trust is dead, Bad pay killed him." Some day, an I mistake not, Mr. Morgan, Your Trust will die: All Trusts are grass. Ponder it! I am a political economist, and I know. Meanwhile I am very pleased to think That we have amongst us a man of your financial prowess And purchasing power. There is a certain class of British person Who apparently goes in bodily fear of you. That class of person has groaned loudly over your steel exploit, And he has groaned loudlier still Over your purchase of the Leyland Line of Steamships. To groan over a fair deal of any kind Appears to me, my dear Mr. Pierpont Morgan, To be an entirely stupid proceeding. Nobody can come to grief by selling things, Providing they sell them at the right price. You have bought the Leyland Line of Steamships: I see no reason why you should not buy all the other lines If you want them, and have the wherewithal to pay for them, For in the long run everything comes to him who vends. You buy my steamships, or my steelworks, Or, for that matter, my caller herrin': I take your money, I put it in your bank, And live sumptuously on the interest. You have all the trouble Inasmuch as you have to rake up the interest. I sit at home and enjoy myself, You scheme, and scheme, and scheme, and scheme, and scheme, and scheme, and scheme, I am happy, I hope you are. Between ourselves I should not tremble If you bought up Great Britain and Ireland (especially Ireland), And all that in them is, Providing always, as I have said before, That you paid the price. Indeed, I hope to live to see the day When Englishmen will cease to toil and spin, And derive their incomes Wholly and solely from American dividends. Fools buy things, my dear Mr. Pierpont Morgan, Wise men sell them. That is particularly true When the article involved happens to be poetry. Nevertheless, as you appear to be in a buying frame of mind, I take this opportunity of informing you That I have at my villa at Hindhead A large and varied stock Of sonnets, odes, rhymes, jingles, and what not, Which I am prepared to sell at an enormous sacrifice. My price to you for the lot would be Fifteen Million Dollars. If you care to deal, I undertake to melt your cheque At your own bank, And to invest the proceeds in any concerns In which you happen to be interested, So that you would not only get the poetry, But also your money back again. This, at any rate, is how it seems to me. Vale!
TO PRINCE EDWARD OF YORK
(_On the Return of the "Ophir"_)