Part 4

Finally, be a sportsman; try to play Your part in what should prove a big success; Let me repeat--don't keep too far away; My distance is a hundred yards (or less); So, ere the eager gillies ope your maw, I'll say, in tones to such occasions proper, The while I drink your death in usquebagh, "He is indeed a topper!"

Nor shall that sentence be your sole reward; Our mutual prowess in the fatal Glen Your headpiece, stuffed and mounted, shall record And be the cynosure of envious men; And when they see that segment of the bag, And want the tale again and I must tell it, I'll say how stoutly, like a well-bred stag, You stopped the soft-nosed pellet.

SIR OWEN SEAMAN. Sept. 14, 1910.

Medalitis

In the full height and glory of the year, When husbandmen are housing golden sheaves, Before the jealous frost has come to shear From the bright woodland its reluctant leaves, I pass within a gateway, where the trees, Tall, stately, multi-coloured, manifold, Draw the eye on as to some Chersonese, Spanning the pathway with their arch of gold.

A river sings and loiters through the grass, Girdling a pleasance scythed and trimly shorn; And here I watch men vanish and repass To the last hour of eve from early morn; Dryads peer out at them, and goat-foot Pan Plays on his pipe to their unheeding ears; They pass, like pilgrims in a caravan, Towards some Mecca in the far-off years.

Blind to the woodland's autumn livery, Blind to the emerald pathway that they tread, Deaf to the river's low-pitched lullaby, Their limbs are quick and yet their souls are dead; Nothing to them the song of any bird, For them in vain were horns of Elfland wound, Blind, deaf and stockfish-mute; for, in a word, They are engaged upon a Medal Round.

Making an anxious torment of a game Whose humours now intrigue them not at all, They chase the flying wraith of printed fame, With card and pencil arithmetical; With features pinched into a painful frown Looming misfortunes they anticipate, Or, as the fatal record is set down, Brood darkly on a detrimental 8.

These are in thrall to Satan, who devised Pencil and card to tempt weak men to sin, Whereby their prowess might be advertised-- Say, 37 Out and 40 In; Rarely does any victim break his chains And from his nape the lethal burden doff-- The man with medal virus in his veins Seldom outlives it and gets back to Golf.

R. K. RISK. Oct. 2, 1912.

My First Flight

Stranded at Brighton and bored to monotony, Sadly I roamed by the crowd-haunted shore; Fed up with bathing and boating and botany, Languidly humming the strains of "Asthore"; Then, in the offing, descended an aeroplane, Gaily the pilot came striding my way; "'Afternoon, Sir!" he exclaimed. "Would you dare a 'plane Voyage to-day?"

Turning, I gazed with an eye that was critical At the contraption of fabric and wires; Flying's a game which my friends in the City call Simply gilt-edged--it uplifts and inspires. Holiday-makers stood by in expectancy, Cinema merchants rushed up with their reels; "Go it!" cried somebody; "go an' get wrecked an' see Just how it feels."

I who had fought for a seat in an omnibus Surely could never recoil from a 'plane? There, newly painted, she stood like a Romney 'bus, Bidding me soar through the vasty inane. Breathing a prayer for myself and my Fatherland Swiftly I scrambled aboard (the First Act); Upward we soared till I felt I would rather land Promptly--intact.

Swift rushed the air and the engine was thunderous, "Say, shall I stunt you?" the pilot then roared. Clouds were above us and Brighton was under us; Peace reigned below--there was Panic on board. Fiercely pulsated my turbulent heart inside, Fiercely we skidded and stunted and swayed; Grimly I crouched in that brute of a Martinsyde-- Dazed and dismayed.

Every mad moment seemed in its intensity More than a cycle of slow-moving years; Finally I, in a state of dumb density, Reached _terra firma_ mid hurricane cheers. Since I've decided that nothing can justify Passenger flights in a nerve-racking 'plane; _Others_ may welcome the sport, but I'm cussed if I Try it again.

G. R. SAMWAYS. Aug. 13, 1919.

On Mixed Shooting

Let my Bettina take it not amiss Nor deem that from my side I wish to shove her If I forego the too, too poignant bliss Of her adjacence in the hedgerow's cover, Where I propose to lurk And do among the driven birds some deadly work.

Linked in the dance, you cannot be too near, Nor where the waves permit our joint immersion; Dinners or theatres yield an added cheer With you beside me to afford diversion From thoughts of play or platter, And not of fundamental things that really matter.

But here, where my immortal soul, afire With fervour savouring almost of religion, Fain would pursue, unvexed, its one desire-- To down the partridge or the errant pigeon, What if you stood (or sat) Close by and asked me if I liked your latest hat?

I could not bear it; you would sap my nerve; My hand and eye would cease to work together; I could not rightly gauge the covey's swerve, And, swinging round to spray the rearmost feather, I might mislay my wits And blow your smart confection into little bits.

Go rather where he stands, a field away, Yon youth who likes himself; go there, my Betty, Beguile his vision; round his trigger lay "One strangling golden hair" (D. G. ROSSETTI). That ought to spoil his feats And keep him fairly quiet in between the beats.

But later, when the luncheon-hour is come, Be near me all you will; for then your prattle Will be most welcome with its pleasant hum So out of place amid the stress of battle; Over an Irish stew, With "Bristol cream" to top it, I am _tout à vous_.

Not that your virtues have no higher use; Such gifts would grace the loftiest position; But where the birds come down wind like the deuce I mark the limit of your woman's mission; In other circs, elsewhere, "A ministering angel thou"; but not just there.

SIR OWEN SEAMAN. Oct. 11, 1911.

Southward

When against the window-pane tap the fingers of the rain, An ill rain, a chill rain, dripping from the eaves, When the farmers haul their logs and the marsh is whisht with fogs, And the wind sighs like an old man, brushing withered leaves; When the Summertime is gone and the Winter creeping on, The doleful Northern winter of snow and sleet and hail, Then I smell the salty brine and I see you, ship o' mine, Bowling through the sunshine under all plain sail.

I can see you, Lady love, the Trade clouds strung above, White clouds, bright clouds, flocking South with you; Like snowy lily buds are the flowery foaming suds That bloom about your forefoot as you tread the meadows blue. Oh the diamond Southern Cross! Oh the wheeling albatross! Oh the shoals of silver flying-fish that skim beside the rail! Though my body's in the North still my heart goes faring forth Bowling through the sunshine under all plain sail.

C. H. BRETHERTON. Dec. 6, 1916.

The Last Cock-Pheasant

Splendour, whom lately on your glowing flight Athwart the chill and cheerless winter-skies I marked and welcomed with a futile right, And then a futile left, and strained my eyes To see you so magnificently large, Sinking to rest beyond the fir-wood's marge--

Not mine, not mine the fault; despise me not In that I missed you; for the sun was down, And the dim light was all against the shot; And I had booked a bet of half-a-crown. My deadly fire is apt to be upset By many causes--always by a bet.

Or had I overdone it with the sloes, Snared by their home-picked brand of ardent gin Designed to warm a shivering sportsman's toes And light a fire his reckless head within? Or did my silly loader put me off With aimless chatter with regard to golf?

You too, I think, displayed a lack of nerve; You did not quite--now did you?--play the game; For when you saw me you were seen to swerve, Doubtless in order to disturb my aim. No, no, you must not ask me to forgive A swerve because you basely planned to live.

At any rate, I missed you, and you went, The last day's absolutely final bird, Scathless, and left me very ill content; And someone (was it I?) pronounced a word, A word which rather forcible than nice is, A little word which does not rhyme with Isis.

Farewell! I may behold you once again When next November's gales have stripped the leaf. Then, while your upward flight you grandly strain, May I be there to add you to my sheaf; And may they praise your tallness, saying "This Was such a bird as men are proud to miss!"

R. C. LEHMANN. Jan. 25, 1911.

Labuntur Anni

[To a Chital Head on the Wall of a London Club.]

Light in the East, the dawn wind singing, Solemn and grey and chill, Rose in the sky, with Orion swinging Down to the distant hill; The grass dew-pearled and the _mohwa_ shaking Her scented petals across the track, And the herd astir to the new day breaking-- Gods! How it all comes back.

So it was, and on such a morning Somebody's bullet sped, And you, as you called to the herd a warning, Dropped in the grasses dead; And some stout hunter's heart was brimming For joy that the gods of sport were good-- With a lump in his throat and his eyes a-dimming, As the eyes of sportsmen should;--

As mine have done in the springtime running, As mine in the halcyon days Ere trigger-finger had lapsed from cunning Or foot from the forest ways, When I'd wake with the stars and the sunrise meeting In the dewy fragrance of myrrh and musk, Peacock and spurfowl sounding a greeting And the jungle mine till dusk.

You take me back to the valleys of laughter, The hills that hunters love, The sudden rain and the sunshine after, The cloud and the blue above, The morning mist and creatures crying, The beat in the drowsy afternoon, Clear-washed eve with the sunset dying, Night and the hunter's moon.

Not till all trees and jungles perish Shall we go back that way To those dear hills that the hunters cherish, Where the hearts of the hunters stay; So you dream on of the ancient glories, Of water-meadows and hinds and stags, While I and my like tell old, old stories... Ah! but it drags--it drags.

C. HILTON BROWN. April 14, 1920.

_School_

"Commem."

Fair ladies, why don't you direct us What hour you are coming from Town In the toilets that ravage the masculine pectus, The bonnets that knock a man down? Silky and summery flounces and flummery, Gossamer muslins and lawns, With the spring in your air and a rose in your hair And a step that is light as a fawn's?

Our Fellows, both clergy and laity, Leaving their sheltering oaks, In a rapture of light irresponsible gaiety Burst into flannels and jokes; The Dean is canoeing, the Bursar is wooing, The Junior Proctor you'll find In a sumptuous punt with a damsel in front And a Bull-dog to push from behind.

Ah, moist are our meadows, but moister My lip at the thought of it all! Soft ripple of dresses that flow in the cloister, Girl laughter that rings on the wall! But avaunt, trepidation! it's time for the station; I'm glad that my trousers are pressed; For I think you'll arrive by the 4.45, And I want to be looking my best.

G. W. ARMITAGE. June 28, 1911.

A Ramshackle Room

When the gusts are at play with the trees on the lawn, And the lights are put out in the vault of the night; When within all is snug, for the curtains are drawn, And the fire is aglow and the lamps are alight, Sometimes, as I muse, from the place where I am My thoughts fly away to a room near the Cam.

'Tis a ramshackle room, where a man might complain Of a slope in the ceiling, a rise in the floor; With a view on a court and a glimpse on a lane, And no end of cool wind through the chinks of the door; With a deep-seated chair that I love to recall, And some groups of young oarsmen in shorts on the wall.

There's a fat jolly jar of tobacco, some pipes-- A meerschaum, a briar, a cherry, a clay-- There's a three-handled cup fit for Audit or Swipes When the breakfast is done and the plates cleared away. There's a litter of papers, of books a scratch lot, Such as _Plato_, and _Dickens_, and _Liddell_ and _Scott_.

And a crone in a bonnet that's more like a rag From a mist of remembrance steps suddenly out; And her funny old tongue never ceases to wag As she tidies the room where she bustles about; For a man may be strong and a man may be young, But he can't put a drag on a Bedmaker's tongue.

And, oh, there's a youngster who sits at his ease In the hope, which is vain, that the tongue may run down, With his feet on the grate and a book on his knees, And his cheeks they are smooth and his hair it is brown. Then I sigh myself back to the place where I am From that ramshackle room near the banks of the Cam.

R. C. LEHMANN. Feb. 9, 1910.

Cambridge in Kharki

[Impressions of an absent Alumnus.]

Since 1642, when CROMWELL (late Of Sidney Sussex), constitution-wrecker, Sat on the Cam to keep the college plate From drifting into CHARLES'S low exchequer, No shattering battle-blast has shocked the walls Of these enchanted halls.

But now their hoary shrines and hallowed shade Provide the billets for a camp's headquarters; An army, bedded out on King's Parade, Usurps the wonted haunt of gowns and mortars, Even adopts--a wanton thing to do-- The blessed name of "Blue"!

The paths where pensive scholars paced at ease Ring to the hustling clank of spurs and sabres; The ploughshare, forged for pale examinees, Forgets its usual academic labours And, commandeered for ends unknown before, Turns to a tool of war.

The buttery becomes a mere canteen; Upon the dais whence the Johnian fellow Pities the undergraduate's rude cuisine (His own condition verging on the mellow), Foreign attachés eat the local swans Bred for the use of dons.

I see the grass of many an ancient court All divots where the cavalry has pawed it; I see the thirsty aides-de-camp resort There where the Trinity fountain runs with audit; I see the Reverend MONTAGU, Chief BUTLER, Acting as army sutler!

Those swards that grace his own familiar quad, Where only angels (looking in from Ely), Angels and dons alone, till now have trod-- There I remark the War-Lord, Colonel SEELY, Brazenly tramping, under martial law, Dead to a sense of awe.

Where mid her storied reeds old Granta flows Profane vedettes discuss the morrow's mêlée; On Parker's sacred Piece the troopers dose, And, when the sudden bugle sounds reveille, Feed their indifferent chargers on the dews Ambrosial of the Muse.

And what is this strange object like a whale In Jesus Close? None ever thought to meet a Monster like that, on such a bulgy scale (Not though it bore the classic sign of "Beta"), Lashed for the night in yon Elysian lair-- Not there, my child, not there.

The peaceful pedant by his well-trimmed lamp, Dimly aware of this adjacent bogie, Protests against the horrors of a camp And _Cur_, he asks, _cur cedunt armis togae_? And the same thought is echoed on the lips Of bedders and of gyps.

O Cambridge, home of Culture's pure delights, My fostering Mother, what a desecration! Yet England chose you (out of several sites) To be her bulwark and to save the nation; Compared with this proud triumph you have won, Pray, what has Oxford done?

SIR OWEN SEAMAN. Sept. 25, 1912.

Oxford Revisited

Last week, a prey to military duty, I turned my lagging footsteps to the West; I have a natural taste for scenic beauty, And all my pent emotions may be guessed To find myself again At Didcot, loathliest junction of the plain.

But all things come unto the patient waiter, "Behold!" I cried, "in yon contiguous blue Beetle the antique spires of Alma Mater Almost exactly as they used to do In 1898, When I became an undergraduate.

"O joys whereto I went as to a bridal, With Youth's fair aureole clustering on a brow That no amount of culture (herpecidal) Will coax the semblance of a crop from now, Once more I make ye mine; There is a train that leaves at half-past nine.

"In a rude land where life among the boys is One long glad round of cards and coffin juice, And any sort of intellectual poise is The constant butt of well-expressed abuse, And it is no disgrace To put a table-knife inside one's face,

"I have remembered picnics on the Isis, Bonfires and bumps and BOFFIN'S cakes and tea, Nor ever dreamed a European crisis Would make a British soldier out of me-- The mute inglorious kind That push the beastly war on from behind.

"But here I am" (I mused) "and quad and cloister Are beckoning to me with the old allure; The lovely world of Youth shall be mine oyster Which I for one-and-ninepence can secure, Reaching on Memory's wing Parnassus' groves and Wisdom's fabled spring."

But oh, the facts! How doomed to disillusion The dreams that cheat the mind's responsive eye! Where are the undergrads in gay profusion Whose waistcoats made melodious the High, All the _jeunesse dorée_ That shed the glamour of an elder day?

Can this be Oxford? And is that my college That vomits khaki through its sacred gate? Are those the schools where once I aired my knowledge Where nurses pass and ambulances wait? Ah! sick ones, pale of face, I too have suffered tortures in that place!

In Tom his quad the Bloods no longer flourish; Balliol is bare of all but mild Hindoos; The stalwart oars that Isis used to nourish Are in the trenches giving Fritz the Blues, And many a stout D.D. Is digging trenches with the V.T.C.

Why press the search when every hallowed close is Cluttered with youthful soldiers forming fours; While the drum stutters and the bugler blows his Loud summons, and the hoarse bull-sergeant roars, While almost out of view The thrumming biplane cleaves the astonished blue?

It is a sight to stir the pulse of poet, These splendid youths with zeal and courage fired. But as for Private Me, M.A.--why, blow it! The very sight of soldiers makes me tired; Learning--detached, apart-- I sought, not War's reverberating art.

Vain search! But see! One ancient institution Still doing business at the same old stand; 'Tis Messrs. Barclay's Bank, or I'm a Proossian, That erst dispensed my slender cash-in-hand; I'll borrow of their pelf And buy some War Loan to console myself.

C. H. BRETHERTON. Feb. 21, 1917.

Breaking-Up Song

Now, when the ties that lightly bind us Slacken awhile at the call of Home, Leaving our latter-day science behind us, Leaving the love of ancient Rome-- Ere we depart to enjoy for a season Freedom from regular work and rules, Come let us all in rhyme and reason Honour the best of schools.

Here's to our Founder, whose ancient bounty Freely bestowed with a pious care, Fostered the youth of his native county, Gave us a name we are proud to bear. Here's to his followers, wise gift-makers, Friends who helped when our numbers were few, Widened our walls and enlarged our acres, Stablished the school anew.

Here's to our Head, in whom all centres, Ruling his realm with a kindly sway; Here's to the Masters, our guides and mentors, Helpers in work and comrades in play; Here's to the Old Boys, working their way up Out in the world on the ladder of Fame; Here's to the New Boys, learning to play up, Ay, and to play the game.

Time will bring us our seasons of trial, Seasons of joy when our ship arrives, Yet, whatever be writ on the dial, Now is the golden hour of our lives; Now is the feast spread fair before us-- None but slackers or knaves or fools Ever shall fail to swell the chorus, "Here's to the best of schools."

C. L. GRAVES and E. V. LUCAS. March 13, 1912.

_Metropolis_

The Ideal Home

[With apologies to the progressive organisers of a certain Exhibition at Olympia.]

"Before the thing ends," I observed to my Lilian, "Let's hasten and see if it's true That the Fortunate Isles and the Vale of Avilion Are dumped at Olympia. Do." And Lilian said, "Thos, Happy thought!" and it was; But that very same day it occurred to a million Intelligent Londoners too.

There were hangings and curtains and carpets and ranges For kitchens, and cauldrons and pots, And vacuum-cleaners and servant-exchanges, And toys for the infantile tots. There were homes of the Russ Which would not do for us; There was furniture taken from futurist granges At Hanwell and similar spots.

There were baths with gold taps and a malachite stopper, And one with a card that explained It was open to all who expended a copper To fill it and try it. But, trained As we were in the rules Of Victorian schools, Neither Lilian nor I thought that that would be proper, And so we severely refrained.

There were rooms which suggested the time when the slattern Should trouble no longer, and all Should be comfort and peace in the empire of Saturn, But oh, it was hot in that hall! And "Lilian," said I, "I could drop. Let us buy That brace of armchairs of a willowy pattern, And rest by the side of this stall."

But Lilian said "No." The implacable faces Of constables frowned. With a sob We turned us away from that palmy oasis And went and had tea for a bob. That was helpful, no doubt, But before we got out Through the ranks of the ravenous, squealing for places, We all but expired in the mob.

"This is closer," said Lil, "than the bell of a diver." "It's awful," I answered, "my sweet; Any room in this show would be dear at a fiver, Compared with our worst. Let us fleet." So I hastened to nab A well-oiled taxicab, And "The Ideal Home," I remarked to the driver, And mentioned our number and street.

E. G. V. KNOX. October 29, 1913.

Ghosts of Paper