Part 2

Garishly beautiful I watch them wane Like sunsets in a pink west, The passions of the past; but O their pain! You recollect that nice affair with Jane? We nearly had an inquest.

I want some mellower romance than these, Something that shall not waken The bosom of the bard from midnight ease, Nor spoil his appetite for breakfast, please (Porridge and eggs and bacon).

Something that shall not steep the soul in gall. Nor plant it _in excelsis_, Nor quite prevent the bondman in its thrall From biffing off the tee as good a ball As anybody else's;

But rather, when the world is dull and gray And everything seems horrid, And books are impotent to charm away The leaden-footed hours, shall make me say, "My hat!" (and strike my forehead)

"I am in love, O circumstance how sweet! O ne'er to be forgot knot!" And praise the damsel's eyebrows, and repeat Her name out loud, until it's time to eat, Or go to bed, or what not.

This is the kind of desultory bolt, Eros, I bid you shoot me; One with no barb to agitate and jolt, One where the feathers have begun to moult-- Any old sort will suit me.

E. G. V. KNOX. April 5, 1911.

The New Resistance

[A novel form of opposition is threatened on the part of mutinous wives. The development is due to the success of certain Suffragettes who, after being admitted to gaol of their own heroic choice, have contrived by dint of fasting to prevail on Mr. HERBERT GLADSTONE to let them out.]

No, Frederica, no; I may have knuckled Under, at times, to woman's soft appeal, But now I have my armour on and buckled; Tears cannot melt that tegument of steel; That which I've said I've said: "You _shall not_ wear a bee-hive on your head!"

I have allowed you loosely to conduct your Home-life according to your lack of taste, But to permit this pestilential structure Would be to have my dignity displaced; Frankly I draw the line At such a hat on any wife of mine.

When we exchanged our pledges at the altar You undertook to honour and obey; And though, ere now, I have been known to palter With manhood's rights, this time I'll have my way; I lay the law down flat, Saying, "You _shall not_ wear a thing like that."

Nor would it shake my purpose should you follow The lead of Suffragettes that live on air, Refusing, out of cussedness, to swallow Your salutary meals. I shouldn't care Two paltry jots or tittles What attitude you took about your victuals.

You might adopt a course of strict starvation, But you would never break my manly pride; You might arrest the fount of sustentation Till you were just a bag of bones and hide, But that would not disturb A man of stouter stuff than GLADSTONE (HERB.).

Believe me, I am anything but brutal; I take no pleasure in a hollow cheek; I could not get my heart to hum or tootle If you were slowly waning week by week; But here I must be firm, Or I should show no better than a worm.

And, if you stuck to it and went on sinking Until you failed to draw another breath, Your widower would console himself with thinking That there are tragedies far worse than death: Dishonour may be reckoned The first of such, and your bee-hat the second.

SIR OWEN SEAMAN. July 28, 1909.

A Whine from a Wooer

Once on a time, ere leagues for woman's freedom Had shed upon the world their golden gleam, Ere dames had stormed the fortress of M.P.dom, The mere man reigned supreme.

No female dared to challenge that position; She only lived to grovel at his throne, Content if she obtained his kind permission To call her soul her own.

Then, lovers' vows were food for maids' digestion; Then, swains received their meed of fond support, Or read in azure eyes the plaintive question,-- Why come you not to court?

That was indeed a great and glorious era; But now we mourn for moments that are not, Since modern damsels bluntly state that we're a Sad and sorry lot.

Lovers, whose wounds still crave the same old healing, Find when they come to throw the handkerchief An absolutely callous lack of feeling Almost beyond belief.

I love my country; I would gladly serve her; But, since her daughters have no eyes to see A matrimonial prize, I say with fervour, "This is no place for me!"

Fixed is my resolution to escape hence; I used to think my skin was fairly tough, But kicks have been more plentiful than ha'pence; It isn't good enough!

England, farewell, a long farewell; for why let The heart remain a slave for chits to tease, When there is many a comfy little islet Set in the Southern seas.

Thither I'll go, a lorn and lonely wight who, Grown tired of wooing Phyllises, may rest Content to know some coloured beads would buy two, _Two_ of the very best!

HARTLEY CARRICK. Jan. 26, 1910.

The Glad Good-bye

[According to the New York correspondent of _The Daily Telegraph_, recent practical tests prove that the substitution of ragtime melodies for the lugubrious farewell music usually played on a big liner's departure does away with the mournful scenes attending such functions and puts everybody in the best of spirits.]

When I broke the news to Mabel that a most insistent cable Had demanded my departure to a land across the sea, She occasioned some dissension by announcing her intention Of delaying her farewell until the vessel left the quay.

I displayed a frigid shoulder to her scheme, and frankly told her That no public show of sentiment my tender heart should sear, For I knew the tears would blind me when "The Girl I Left Behind Me" And the strains of "Auld Lang Syne" reverberated in my ear.

But I've recently relented and quite willingly consented To be sped upon my journey by the mistress of my soul; I shall banish sorrow's canker ere the sailors weigh the anchor, And present a smiling visage when the ship begins to roll.

There'll be no one feeling chippy when the band plays "Mississippi" (Such a melody would even lend a fillip to a wreck); I shall laugh and warble freely when they start "The Robert E. Lee," And my cup will be complete when "Snooky-Ookums" sweeps the deck.

Tears of joy there'll be for shedding when "The Darkie's Ragtime Wedding" Sends a syncopated spasm through the passengers and crew; And, when warning tocsins clang go, down the gangway Mab will tango, While I bunny-hug the steward to the tune of "Hitchy-Koo."

STANLEY J. FAY. July 30, 1913.

Wintry Fires

Lady, having been engaged since May-day (Pity that the Spring should ever stop!) Now the year's no longer in its heyday, Don't you think we'd better let it drop?

In the Spring a young man's fancy lightly Turns to love, as doubtless you're aware; In the Spring we wax exceeding sprightly, Due, no doubt, to something in the air.

Then, as was both natural and proper, We two met and, scorning all delay, Vowed to wed, and neither cared a copper For the pregnant fact that it was May.

Summer came and, warming with the weather, Rarely was an ardour such as mine; You'll recall that, take it altogether, For an English summer it was fine.

Summer turned to Autumn, and September Opened to the world her golden feast; Quite a record month, as you'll remember, And my love, if anything, increased.

Honestly, I thought it was a sure case; Only, now the early Winter's come, Lady, as in others', so in your case, I confess to getting rather numb.

Do not deem me fickle, dear, and faithless; Though the readjustment seems to be Sudden--not to call it startling--natheless You can hardly put it down to me.

Love appears, for some unfathomed reason, Like a flow'r that ripens with the sun; And, like everything that has its season, Withers when its little course is run.

That's what I conceive to be the matter; And I write, believe me, with regret; For I own, with no desire to flatter, That you're quite the nicest girl I've met.

Still, farewell, or (put it less severely) _Au revoir_; I hope you'll keep the ring; Snows are brief, and I, who loved you dearly Once, again may do so--in the Spring.

CAPT. KENDALL. _Almanack_, 1914.

The Fount of Inspiration

You ask me, Araminta, why my pen, Whose airy efforts helped me once to win you, Has, since you made me happiest of men, Apparently resolved to discontinue Its periodic flights And steadily avoids the Muses' heights.

I, too, have wondered. Are connubial cares Antipathetic to divine afflatus? Yet many a bard has piped his liveliest airs After surrendering his single status; Or can it be the War That's been and dried me up in every pore?

Darling, I groped for light, but found no ray; Chill with despair, I almost ceased to seek a Way through the fog, when suddenly to-day Like ARCHIMEDES I exclaimed, "Eureka!" I found indeed the path This morning as I lay inside my bath.

For yesterday to rural scenes you fled And left me, duty's slave, to desolation; To-day I sought my tub with measured tread And spent an hour immersed in contemplation Just as I used to do Ere yet in beauty side by side we grew.

No urgent call to breakfast broke my rest; Serene and snug I heard the quarters chiming, And, as the brimming waters lapped my breast, Almost unconsciously I started rhyming; Then through my mind it shot That thus were all my master-works begot.

Straight from the slopes of Helicon the stream Poured through the tap its music-making shower; Each floating bubble held a precious gleam Which grew to glory as a lyric flower; Idly I laved my curls, And from the sponge there dropped a rain of pearls.

Therefore, when back you hasten to my side, Place this, my love, among your resolutions-- Though eggs grow chill and bacon petrified, Never to hustle me in my ablutions, And, to redeem your fault, Order me several tins of Attic Salt.

STANLEY J. FAY. July 28, 1915.

Time's Revenges

[A straight talk addressed by a middle-aged bachelor to the love of his youth.]

No, Honoria, I am greatly flattered When you cast a soft, seductive eye On a figure permanently battered Out of shape by Anno Domini; Yet, you'll take it please, from me, It can never, never be.

Vainly,--and you mustn't be offended Should a certain candour mark my words-- Vainly is the obvious net extended Underneath the eyes of us old birds; Nor are we--it sounds unkind-- Taking any salt behind.

You have passed, you say, the salad season, Growing sick of boyhood's callow fluff; You prefer the age of settled reason-- Men with minds composed of sterner stuff; All your nature, now so ripe, Yearns towards the finished type.

Yes, but what about your full-fledged fogeys? Youth is good enough for us, I guess; Still we like it fluffy; still the vogue is Sweet-and-Twenty--ay, or even less; Only lately I have been Badly hit by Seventeen.

I have known my heart to melt like tallow In the company of simple youth, Careless though its brain was clearly shallow, Beauty being tantamount to Truth; Give us freshness, free of art, We'll supply the brainy part.

Thus in _your_ hands I was soft as putty Ere your intellect began to grow, When we went a-Maying in the nutty Time--it seems a thousand years ago; _Then_ I wished to make you mine; Why on earth did you decline?

You declined because you had a notion You could choose a husband when you would; There were better fish inside the ocean Than had come to hand--or quite as good; So, until you reached the thirties, We were treated much as dirt is.

Then you grew a little less fastidious, Wondering if your whale would soon arrive, Till your summers (age is so insidious) Touched their present total--45; Well, then, call it 38; Anyhow, it's _far_ too late.

You may say there's something most unknightly Something almost rude about my tone? No, Honoria, when regarded rightly, These are Time's revenges, not my own; You may deem it want of tact, Still, I only state the fact.

Yet, to end upon a note less bitter, You shall hear what chokes me off to-day: 'Tis the thought (it makes my heart-strings twitter) Of a Young Thing chasing nuts in May: 'Tis my loyalty to Her, To the Girl that once you were.

SIR OWEN SEAMAN. _Almanack_, 1910.

_Chorus of the Months_

To an Early Daffodil

Rare, rare bloom of the sun enslaven, Laughter-laden and gold-bedight, How came you to a Northern haven, To a sky the colour of anthracite? To what fair land do your thoughts go homing, Southern shore with cream waves combing, Where the birds and bees are all day roaming And nightingales sing to the stars all night?

Was it Persephone's guileless finger Coaxed you first from Sicily's sward, Where the herdsmen's steps were fain to linger And the cattle splashed in the drowsy ford, While the Satyrs danced with their Naiad neighbours To a measure of shepherd-pipes and tabors, And the Cyclops toiled at his endless labours By the flaming forges of Etna's lord?

Or were you born by the staid Cephissus Where the dull Boeotian days went by, To mind men ever of fond Narcissus Where Helicon climbed to the stormy sky; Where the clouds still follow the tearful Hyads By the homes of the oak-tree Hamadryads, And the Thracian wind with its sough and sigh adds Homage to graves where the heroes lie?

I love to think it; but could you tell us We should find, I fear, that with all your class You know as much of the land of Hellas As I do, say, of the Khyber Pass. For I doubt you are none of the old-time lilies Beloved of Hector and fleet Achilles; In the Channel Isles, or perhaps the Scillies, You were grown in a hot-house under glass.

C. HILTON BROWN. Feb. 14, 1912.

The Despair of My Muse

Ye great brown hares, grown madder through the Spring! Ye birds that utilise your tiny throttles To make the archways of the forest ring Or go about your easy house-hunting! Ye toads! ye axolotls!

Ye happy blighters all, that squeal and squat And fly and browse where'er the mood entices, Noting in every hedge or woodland grot The swelling surge of sap, but noting not The rise in current prices!

But chiefly you, ye birds, whose jocund note (Linnets and larks and jays and red-billed ousels) Oft in those happier springtides now remote Caused me to catch the lyre and clear my throat After some coy refusals!

Ay, and would cause me now--I have such bliss Seeing the star-set vale, the pearls, the agates Sown on the wintry boughs by Flora's kiss-- Only the trouble in my case is this, I do not feed on maggots.

Could I but share your diet cheap and rude, Your simple ways in trees and copses lurking; But no, I need a pipe and lots of food, A comfortable chair on which to brood-- Silence! the bard is working.

Could I but know that freedom from all care That comes, I say, from gratis sets of suitings And homes that need not premium nor repair Except with sticks and mud and moss and hair, My! there would be some flutings.

So and so only would the ivory rod Stir the wild strings once more to exaltation, So and so only the impetuous god Pound in my bosom and produce that odd Tum-tiddly-um sensation.

And often as I heard the throstles vamp, Pouring their liquid notes like golden syrup, Out would I go and round the garden tramp, Wearing goloshes if the day were damp, And imitate their chirrup.

Or, bowling peacefully upon my bike, Well breakfasted, by no distractions flustered, Pause near a leafy copse or brambled dyke, And answer song for song the black-backed shrike, The curlew and the bustard.

But now--ah, why prolong the dreadful strain?-- Limply my hand the unstrung harp relaxes; The dear old days will not come back again Whatever Mr. AUSTEN CHAMBERLAIN Does with the nation's taxes.

Lambs, buds, leap up; the lark to heaven climbs; Bread does the same; the price of baccy's brutal; And save (I do not note it in _The Times_) They make exceptions for evolving rhymes, Dashed if I mean to tootle!

E. G. V. KNOX. March 24, 1920.

A Child of the Sun

Winged pirate with the poisoned dagger! Devourer of the jampot's hoard, And quite incorrigible ragger Of every British breakfast board, Till blind with surfeit to your doom you stagger, Drunk as a lord;

Till, trapped amid the heady spices, Snared by the treason of your taste, Foreseeing not the hand that slices (Be cautious, woman, not with haste!)-- Mary, who's always bold at such a crisis, Severs your waist;

Wasp (to be brief), my dear good fellow-- A pestilential bore to some Who mark you round their plates grow mellow, But I am glad to hear you hum-- Which is your favourite brand, old boy, the yellow Or greengage plum?

'Ware of your appetite for toping I do not shriek nor tremble if I find you round my foodstuffs sloping, But, like a man, at danger sniff, Watching my hour, well-armed and always hoping To have you stiff.

Nay, what is more, I praise your pounces, I contemplate with joy your nerve; At every boom my bosom bounces, It almost pains me when you swerve Down to your last long sleep in 16 oz. Of pure conserve.

For this I know, what time you smother Remembrance in that final bout, The sun's your sire, the earth's your mother, You bring the days of halcyon drought; Therefore I weep for you the while, my brother, I wipe you out.

E. G. V. KNOX July 20, 1910.

Herbs of Grace

VI.-ROSEMARY

Whenas on summer days I see That sacred herb, the Rosemary, The which, since once our Lady threw Upon its flow'rs her robe of blue, Has never shown them white again, But still in blue doth dress them-- _Then, oh, then I think upon old friends and bless them._

And when beside my winter fire I feel its fragrant leaves suspire, Hung from my hearth-beam on a hook, Or laid within a quiet book There to awake dear ghosts of men When pages ope that press them-- _Then, oh, then I think upon old friends and bless them._

The gentle Rosemary, I wis, Is Friendship's herb and Memory's. Ah, ye whom this small herb of grace Brings back, yet brings not face to face, Yea, all who read those lines I pen, Would ye for truth confess them? _Then, oh, then Think upon old friends and bless them._

W. W. BLAIR FISH. April 11, 1917.

Spring Cleaning

The hailstorm stopped; a watery sun came out, And late that night I clearly saw the moon; The lilac did not actually sprout, But looked as if it ought to do in June. I did not say, "My love, it is the Spring"; I rubbed my chilblains in a cheerful way And asked if there was some warm woollen thing My wife had bought me for the first of May; And, just to keep the ancient customs green, We said we'd give the poor old house a clean.

Good Mr. Ware came down with all his men, And filled the house with lovely oily pails, And went away to lunch at half-past ten, And came again at tea-time with some nails. And laid a ladder on the daffodil, And opened all the windows they could see, And glowered fiercely from the window sill On me and Mrs. Tompkinson at tea, And set large quantities of booby-traps And then went home--a little tired, perhaps.

They left their paint-pots strewn about the stair, And switched the lights off--but I knew the game; They took the geyser--none could tell me where; It was impossible to wash my frame. The painted windows would not shut again, But gaped for ever at the Eastern skies; The house was full of icicles and rain; The bedrooms smelled of turpentine and size; And if there be a more unpleasant smell I have no doubt that it was there as well.

My wife went out and left me all alone, While more men came and clamoured at the door To strip the house of everything I own, The curtains and the carpets from the floor, The kitchen range, the cushions and the stove, And ask me things that husbands never know, "Is this 'ere paint the proper shade of mauve?" Or "Where is it this lino has to go?" I slunk into the cellar with the cat, This being where the men had put my hat.

I cowered in the smoking-room, unmanned; The days dragged by and still the men were here. And then I said, "I, too, will take a hand," And borrowed lots of decorating gear. I painted the conservatory blue; I painted all the rabbit-hutches red; I painted chairs in every kind of hue, A summer-house, a table and a shed; And all of it was very much more fair Than any of the work of Mr. Ware.

But all his men were stung with sudden pique And worked as never a worker worked before; They decorated madly for a week And then the last one tottered from the door, And I was left, still working day and night, For I have found a way of keeping warm, And putting paint on everything in sight Is surely Art's most satisfying form; I know no joy so simple and so true As painting the conservatory blue.

A. P. HERBERT. May 14, 1919.

Lines to a Mudlark

[In memory of the days when Summers were wet.]

Thrice happy fay, ah, would that men could model Their lives on thine, most beautiful, most calm, Melodious songster! List, how, while we swaddle Our limbs in mackintoshes, thy clear psalm Rises untroubled. Lo! low thou dost waddle About in filthy pools and find them balm, Insatiate of beastliness and muck, Blithe spirit of our summer, hail, O duck!

There is no gleam of comfort in the heavens, Now, while we sit with suppliant hands and groan, Pavilion-bound the impotent elevens, The farmer cursing at the tempest's moan, But thou, O duck, O duck, of Mrs. Evans, For ever singest in mellifluous tone, The deluge pouring from thy rain-proof back, Loud orisons of praise. Thou goest "Quack,"

And once more, "Quack," well knowing to recover The first fine careless sound, egregious brute, Out in the orchard yonder, where some lover Maybe has wandered with goloshless boot In other years, and plucked from boughs above her (Matching his lady's cheek) the ripened fruit: But now in vain they vaunt their crimson front, One cannot pick them, not without a punt.

Ah, yes, thou singest on, thy voice assuages (Or ought to) human plaints about the corn, Perhaps the self-same voice that in past ages Cheered the sick heart of HAM some early morn, As he leaned out and cried, "The flood still rages, The Ark is tossing in a sea forlorn, But some live thing is happy; don't condemn Our Eastern climate, JAPHET! Cheer up, SHEM!"

But I, when I observe no sunshine dapple The leaden pall above, the rayless gloom, And hear thee singing 'neath the pendant apple, Although I praise thee, duck, I also fume, I ask for vengeance, for the gods who grapple With too much fortune, for the hand of doom; I like to think that thou must end thy joys, And stop that silly sort of rootling noise.