Part 3
I lift my nose to catch the wafted savour Of incense stealing from the onion-bed, The perfume of the sage leaf. O, thou laver In filthiness and slush, I want thee dead-- No more to gloat upon our grief, nor favour The air with that wild music, but instead With vermeil fruit, like those on yonder trees, Garnished in dissolution. Also peas.
E. G. V. KNOX. SEPT. 4, 1912.
Pagan Fancies
Blow, Father Triton, blow your wreathéd horn Cheerily, as is your wont, and let the blast Circle our island on the breezes born; Blow, while the shining hours go swiftly past. Rise, Proteus, from the cool depths rise, and be A friend to them that breast your ancient sea.
I shall be there to greet you, for I tire Of the dull meadows and the crawling stream. Now with a heart uplifted and a-fire I come to greet you and to catch the gleam Of jocund Nereids tossing in the air The sportive tresses of their amber hair.
High on a swelling upland I shall stand Stung by the buffets of the wind-borne spray; Or join the troops that sport upon the sand, With shouts and laughter wearing out the day; Or pace apart and listen to the roar Of the great waves that beat the crumbling shore.
Then, when the children all are lapped in sleep The pretty Nymphlets of the sea shall rise, And we shall know them as they flit and creep And peep and glance and murmur lullabies; While the pale moon comes up beyond the hill, And Proteus rests and Triton's horn is still.
R. C. LEHMANN. Aug. 14, 1912.
Ballade of August
Now when the street-pent airs blow stale A longing stirs us as of yore To take the old Odyssian trail, To bend upon the trireme's oar For isled stream and hill-bound shore; To lay aside the dirty pen For summer's blue and golden store 'Neath other skies, 'mid stranger men!
Then let the rover's call prevail That opes for us the enchanted door, That bids us stretch the silken sail For bays o'er which the seabirds soar, And foam-flecked rollers pitch and roar, Where nymph maybe, and mermaiden, Come beachward to the moonrise hoar, 'Neath other skies, 'mid stranger men!
Blue-eyed Calypsos, Circes pale (The sage who shuns them I abhor), These--for a fortnight--shall not fail To thrill the heart's susceptive core, To bind us with their ancient lore, Who rather like to listen when Sweet-lipp'd the sirens voice their score, 'Neath other skies, 'mid stranger men!
ENVOY
Masters, who seek the minted ore, It's only August now and then, Ah, take the Wanderer's way once more, 'Neath other skies, 'mid stranger men!
P. R. CHALMERS. Aug. 23, 1911.
Farewell to Summer
Summer, if now at length your time is through, And, as occurs with lovers, we must part, My poor return for all the debt, your due, Is just to say that you may keep my heart; Still warm with heat-waves rolling up the sky, Its melting tablets mark in mid-September Their record of the best three months that I Ever remember.
I had almost forgotten how it felt Not to awake at dawn to sweltering mirth, And hourly modify my ambient belt To cope with my emaciated girth; It seems that always I have had to stay My forehead's moisture with the frequent mopper, And found my cheek assume from day to day A richer copper.
Strange spells you wrought with your transforming glow! O London drabness bathed in lucent heat! O Mansions of the late Queen Anne, and O Buckingham Palace (also Wimpole Street)! O laughing skies traditionally sad! O barometric forecasts never "rainy"! O balmy days, and nodes, let me add, _Ambrosianae!_
And if your weather brought the strikers out And turned to desert-brown the verdant plot; If civic fathers, who are often stout, Murmured at times, "This is a bit too hot!" If the slow blood of rural swains has stirred When stating what their views about the crops is, Or jammy lips have flung some bitter word At this year's wopses;--
What then? You may have missed the happy mean, But by excess of virtue's ample store, Proving your lavish heart was over-keen, And for that fault I love you yet the more; Nay, had you been more temperate in your zeal, I should have lacked the best of all your giving-- The thirst, the lovely thirst, that made me feel Life worth the living.
SIR OWEN SEAMAN. Sept. 20, 1911.
A Failure of Sympathy
When the dead leaves adown the lane are hurried, And all the dells are bare and bonfires smoke, The bard (by rights) should be extremely worried, He ought not to evolve a single joke, But wander, woods among, a pale down-hearted bloke.
And I (of old) have felt the chestnuts patter Like sounds of nails upon my coffin-lid; My landlady, disturbed about the matter, Asked if I liked my food; I said I did; But told her where I ailed, and why Joy's face was hid.
"The flowers," I said, "are gone; once more Proserpina Is rapt by Pluto to the iron gates; Can even hard-boiled eggs prolong the chirp in a Poetic bosom at such awful dates?" And she said nothing, but removed the breakfast plates.
But now (I know not why) I feel quite jolly; The ways are thick with mire, the woods are sere; The rain is falling, I have lost my brolly, Yet still my aptitude for song and cheer Seems unaffected by the damp. It's deuced queer.
And when I wander by the leafless spinneys I notice as a mere phenomenon The way they've moulted; I would give two guineas To feel the good old thrill, but ah, it's gone: I neither weep nor tear my hair; I just move on.
I quite enjoy my meals (it seems like treason); Far other was the case in days of yore, When every mood of mine subserved the season-- Mirth for the flowery days, and mirth no more When Summer ended and her garlands choked the floor.
You bid me take my fill of joy, dear reader, And hang repining! but I dread my bliss; If I can prove myself a hearty feeder, Saying to tea-shop fairs, "Two crumpets, Miss," What time Demeter's daughter feels that icy kiss,
Shall I be some day cold to Nature's laughter? Shall I no longer leap and shout and sing And shake with vernal odes the echoing rafter, When at the first warm flush of amorous Spring The woodlands shine again? That _would_ be sickening.
E. G. V. KNOX. Nov. 1, 1911.
To Santa Claus
Historic Santa! Seasonable Claus! Whose bulging sack is pregnant with delight; Who comest in the middle of the night To stuff distracting playthings in the maws Of stockings never built for infant shins, Suspended from the mantelpiece by pins.
Thou who on earth was named Nicholas-- There be dull clods who doubt thy magic power To tour the sleeping world in half-an-hour, And pop down all the chimneys as you pass With woolly lambs and dolls of frabjous size For grubby hands and wonder-laden eyes.
Not so thy singer, who believes in thee Because he has a young and foolish spirit; Because the simple faith that bards inherit Of happiness is still the master key, Opening life's treasure-house to whoso clings To the dim beauty of imagined things.
Wherefore, good Kringle, do not pass me by, Who am too old, alas! for trains and blocks, But stuff the Love of Beauty in my socks And Childlike Faith to last me till I die; And there'll be room, I doubt not, in the toes For Magic Cap and Spectacles of Rose.
And not a song of beauty, sung of old, Or saga of the dead heroic days, And not a blossom laughing by the ways, Or wind of April blowing on the wold But in my heart shall have the power to stir The shy communion of the worshipper.
Hark! On the star-bright highways of the sky Light hoofs beat and the far-off sleigh-bell sounds! Is it old Santa on his gracious rounds Or one dead legend drifting sadly by? Not mine to say. And, though I long to peep, Santa shall always find me fast asleep.
C. H. BRETHERTON. Dec. 26, 1917.
In Winter
Boreas blows on his high wood whistle, Over the coppice and down the lane Where the goldfinch chirps from the haulm of the thistle And mangolds gleam in the farmer's wain. Last year's dead and the new year sleeping Under its mantle of leaves and snow; Earth holds beauty fast in her keeping But Life invincible stirs below.
Runs the sap in each root and rhizome, Primrose yellow and snowdrop cold, Windyflowers when the chiffchaff flies home, Lenten lilies with crowns of gold. Soon the woods will be blithe with bracken, April whisper of lambs at play; Springs will triumph--and our old black hen (Thank the Lord!) will begin to lay.
C. H. BRETHERTON. Jan. 22, 1919.
_Sport_
Huntin' Weather
There's a dog-fox down in Lannigan's spinney (And Lannigan's wife has hens to mourn); The hunters stamp in their stalls and whinny, Soft with leisure an' fat with corn.
The colts are pasturin', bold an' lusty, Sleek they are with their coats aglow, Ripe to break, but the bits grow rusty And the saddles sit in a dusty row.
Old O'Dwyer was here a-Monday With a few grey gran'fathers out for a field (Like the ghostly hunt of a dead-an'-done day), They--an' some lassies that giggled an' squealed.
The houn's they rioted like the devil (They ran a hare an' they killed a goose); I cursed Caubeen, but he looked me level: "The boys are away--so what's the use?"
The mists lie clingin' on bog an' heather, Haws hang red on the silver thorn; It's huntin' weather, ay, huntin' weather, But trumpets an' bugles have beat the horn!
CROSBIE GARSTIN. Jan. 5, 1916.
A February Trout-Fancy
Now are the days ere the crocus Peeps in the Park, Ere the first snowdrops invoke us, Ere the brown lark Hymns over headland and heather Spring and her riot of weather, Days when the East winds are moaning together, Dreary and dark!
Still, just at times comes a hint of Softness that brings, Spite of the season, a glint of April's own wings: Violets hawked on the highway, West winds a-whoop down a byway, Silver clouds loose on the blue of their sky-way, Such are the things!
Yes, though old Winter o'ertake us Swiftly again, These are the portents that make us Pause by the pane-- Windows where weavers of tackle Snare us with shows that unshackle Dreams, as we gaze upon tinsel and hackle, Greenheart and cane!
Visions of bud on the sallow, Swards in gay gown, Glimpses of pool and of shallow, Streams brimming down; Wail of the wandering plover, Flute of the thrush in the cover, Swirl of the pounder that breaks, turning over At your March Brown!
Hark to the reel's sudden shrill of Line that's ripped out, Feel the rod thrill with the thrill of Fate still in doubt, Till, where the shingles are showing, Yours are the rainbow tints glowing Crimson and gold on a lusty and knowing Devonshire trout!
Such are the fancies they throw us, Sun and soft air, Woven at windows that show us, Lingering there, Not the mere flies for our buying, Not only rods for our trying, But--if we've eyes for it--all the undying Fun o' Spring Fair!
P. R. CHALMERS. Feb. 9, 1910.
At Putney
When eight strong fellows are out to row, With a slip of a lad to guide them, I warrant they'll make the light ship go, Though the coach on the launch may chide them, With his "Six, get on to it! Five, you're late! Don't hurry the slides, and use your weight! You're bucketing, Bow; and, as to Four, The sight of his shoulders makes me sore!"
But Stroke has steadied his fiery men, And the lift on the boat gets stronger; And the Coxswain suddenly shouts for "Ten! Reach out to it, longer, longer!" While the wind and the tide raced hand in hand The swing of the crew and the pace were grand; But now that the two meet face to face It's buffet and slam and a tortoise-pace.
For Hammersmith Bridge has rattled past, And, oh, but the storm is humming. The turbulent white steeds gallop fast; They're tossing their crests and coming. It's a downright rackety, gusty day, And the backs of the crew are drenched in spray; But it's "Swing, boys, swing till you're deaf and blind, And you'll beat and baffle the raging wind."
They have slipped through Barnes; they are round the bend; And the chests of the eight are tightening. "Now spend your strength, if you've strength to spend, And away with your hands like lightning! Well rowed!"--and the coach is forced to cheer-- "Now stick to it, all, for the post is near!" And, lo, they stop at the coxswain's call, With its message of comfort, "Easy all!"
So here's to the sturdy undismayed Eight men who are bound together By the faith of the slide and the flashing blade And the swing and the level feather; To the deeds they do and the toil they bear; To the dauntless mind and the will to dare; And the joyous spirit that makes them one Till the last fierce stroke of the race is done.
R. C. LEHMANN. March 16, 1910.
"Gambol"
I stood among the rapturous kennelled pack, Rejecting love from many a slobbering jaw, Caressing many a twisting mottled back And gripping here and there a friendly paw. But yet a well-known white-and-liver stern I sought in vain amid the dappled scramble. A sudden apprehension made me turn And say, "Where's Gambol?"
Gambol--a nailer on a failing scent, Leading by fifty yards across the plough! Gambol, who erst would riot and repent, Who loved to instigate a kennel row! Who'd often profit by "a private view" "Huic-ing to him" incarnadined from cover, And when a "half-cooked hare" sat squatting, who Through roots would shove her!
I turned with mute inquiry in my eyes, Dire rumours of distemper made me dumb, The kennel huntsman, chary of replies, Behind his shoulder jerked a horny thumb. Such silence, though familiar, boded ill; With doubts and fears increasing every minute, I paused before a doorway--all was still As death within it.
Gambol was stretched upon a truss of hay, But not the ruthless hound that I had known. That snarling terrorist of many a fray Now at my feet lay low, but not alone, Then rose to greet me--slowly shaking free Four sleek round shapes that piped a puling twitter-- And fawned, half shamed, half proud for me to see Her brand-new litter.
MISS JESSIE POPE. March 20, 1912.
"The Little Foxes"
This was a wisdom that SOLOMON said In a garden of citron and roses red, A word he wove, where his grey apes played, In the rhyme he strung for love of a maid; Thus went his learning, most discerning, Thus he sang of his old designs, "Take us the foxes--little foxes, Little dog-foxes that spoil the vines!"
(Though SOLOMON never since he was born Had heard the twang of a huntsman's horn, Killing his foxes, so I'll be bound, Without the help of a horse or hound, Still down the ages, this his sage's Word with gallanter meaning shines, When we take foxes, little foxes, Little dog-foxes that spoil the vines!)
So when the morn hangs misty now Where the grass shows never a patch of plough, Hark to the cry on the spruce-crowned hill, For SOLOMON'S wisdom is working still; Hark to the singing voices flinging, White sterns waving among the pines, All for the foxes--little foxes, Little dog-foxes that spoil the vines.
The lift of a cap at the cover side, A thud of hoofs in a squelchy ride, And the pack is racing a breast-high scent Like a shadow cloud o'er a windy bent! Customer cunning--full of running, Never a moment the game declines; Thus are the foxes--little foxes, Little dog-foxes that spoil the vines.
So it's afternoon, and eight miles away That beat, dead-weary and stiff with clay A tired mask, set for a distant whin, Is turned on Death with a brigand grin! There by the paling, wet brush trailing, Still he bares them his lips' long lines; So die the foxes--little foxes, Little dog-foxes that spoil the vines.
This was the wisdom that SOLOMON made In a garden of citron and almug shade, That a man and a horse might find them fun Wherever the little dog-foxes run, Since of his meaning we've been gleaning, Since we've altered his old designs. All about foxes--little foxes, Little dog-foxes that spoil the vines!
P. R. CHALMERS. April 3, 1912.
To a Cuckoo, Heard on the Links
Bohemian spirit! unencumbered by Penates, And sole performer of the woodland band Whose contributions I can recognise with great ease, Let others count you shifting as the sand, But surely underneath that bosom black-barred There lurks a sentiment that I (the hack-bard) Can fully comprehend. So, cuckoo, here's my hand.
Not for the sake of ease you flit about the copses And bid your partner to an alien care, Entrust the incubation of her popsy-wopsies, Planting the eggy mites at unaware; But art, the voice of art, is ever calling. How could CARUSO sing with infants squalling? To fetter genius is to drive it to despair.
Should I not turn also my heartstrings to macadam? I too deposit, whereso'er I could, A host of unmelodious babies (if I had 'em) Or in the kindly shelter of some wood (With robins), or whatever creche was going, Soon as I felt the inspiration flowing, The bubbling in my brain-pan? Yes, by Jove, I should.
'Tis therefore that I sometimes wonder when I hear you Fulfil the valley with that vagrant noise, Now by the holm-oak yonder, now beside this near yew (Unhampered as you are by household ploys), Why you have never hit on something neater, Some outburst less monotonous of metre, Less easy to be aped by unregenerate boys.
Is it perhaps that, like that other star, the throstle, Simply to prove your throat can stand the strain, You too keep on, the Spring's repetitive apostle, Piping your pæan till it haunts the brain? I cannot say. But what I find so sad is One never knows if you or if the caddies Are making all that rumpus. There it goes again!
E. G. V. KNOX. April 21, 1909.
The First Game
There comes a Day (I can hear it coming), One of those glorious deep-blue days, When larks are singing and bees are humming, And Earth gives voice in a thousand ways-- Then I, my friends, I too shall sing, And hum a foolish little thing, And whistle like (but not too like) a blackbird in the Spring.
There looms a Day (I can feel it looming; Yes, it will be in a month or less), When all the flowers in the world are blooming And Nature flutters her fairest dress-- Then I, my friends, I too shall wear A blazer that will make them stare, And brush--this is official: I shall also brush my hair.
It is the day that I watch for yearly, Never before has it come so late; But now I've only a month--no, merely A couple of fortnights left to wait; And then (to make the matter plain) I hold--at last!--a bat again: Dear HOBBS! the weeks this summer--think! the _weeks_ I've lived in vain!
I see already the first ball twisting Over the green as I take my stand, I hear already long-on insisting It wasn't a chance that came to hand-- Or no; I see it miss the bat And strike me on the knee, whereat Some fool, some silly fool at point, says blandly, "How was that?"
Then, scouting later, I hold a hot 'un At deep square-leg from the local FRY, And at short mid-on to the village SCOTTON I snap a skimmer some six-foot high-- Or else, perhaps, I get the ball, Upon the thumb, or not at all, Or right into the hands, and then, lorblessme, let it fall.
But what care I? It's the game that calls me-- Simply to be on the field of play; How can it matter what fate befalls me, With ten good fellows and one good day? ... But still, I rather hope spectators will, Observing any lack of skill, Remark, "This is his first appearance." Yes, I _hope_ they will.
A. A. MILNE. July 6, 1910.
Inland Golf
I hate the dreadful hollow, in the shade of the little wood, Its lips in the grass above are bearded with flame-gold whin; I have tried to forget the past, to play the shot as I should, But echo there, however I put it, answers me, "In!"
For there in that ghastly pit long years ago I was found, Playing the sad three-more, interring the sphere where it fell; Mangled and flattened and hacked and dinted deep in the ground, My ball had the look that is joy to the loafer with balls to sell.
Down at the foot of the cliff, whose shadow makes dusk of the dawn, Maddened I stood and muttered, making a friend of despair; Then out I climbed while the wind that had tricked me began to fawn, Politely removing the sand that had made a mat of my hair.
Why do they prate of the blessings of golf on an inland course Where the "pretty" is but the plain, the "rough," prehensile hay, That yields up the ball (if at all) to a reckless _tour de force_, And mocks with rippling mirth your search in it day by day.
And the lost-ball madness flushes up in the 12-man's head, When the breeze brings down the impatient, contemptuous "Fore!" Till he gives it up at last and, dropping another instead, Envies those fortunate folk, the dead, who need golf no more.
R. K. RISK. July 12, 1911.
To an Unknown Deer
[Somewhere above the head of Loch Fyne.]
King of the treeless forest, lo, I come! This is to let you have the welcome news That you will shortly hear my bullet's hum Shatter Argyll amid her mountain dews; Will hear, from hill to hill, its rumour fly To startle (if the wind be not contrary) The tripper gathering picture-postcards by The pier at Inveraray.
This is your funeral, my friend, not mine, So play the game, for slackness I abhor; Give me a broadside target, large and fine, A hundred paces off--don't make it more; If in a sitting posture when we meet, You mustn't think of moving; stay quite steady Or (better) rise, and standing on your feet Wait there till I am ready.
Lurk not in hollows where you can't be found, Or let the local colour mock my search; But take the sky-line; choose the sort of ground That shows you up as obvious as a church; Don't skulk among your hinds, or use for scouts The nimble progeny of last year's harem To bring reports upon my whereabouts In case I chance to scare 'em.
If I should perforate you in a place Not strictly vital, but from that rude shock Death must ensue, don't run and hide your face, But let me ease you with another knock; And if, by inadvertence, I contrive Initially to miss you altogether, Stand till I empty out my clip of five, Or make you bite the heather.
As for your points, I take a snobbish view: I dearly love a stag of Royal stuff; But, if a dozen's more than you can do, Ten (of the best) will suit me well enough; As for your weight, I want a bulky beast, That I may win a certain patron's benison, Loading his board, to last a week at least, With whiffy slabs of venison.