Chapter 3

'Our Referee has fall'n, has fall'n. She came, The woman with her ash, and lo the wound! But we will make a bandage for the limb, And swathe it, heel to knee, with splints and wool, And embrocations for the hurts of man.

'Our Referee has fall'n, has fall'n; he wailed; With our own ears we heard him, and we knew _There dwelt an iron nature in the grain_! The splintering ash was cloven on his limb; His limb was battered to the cannon-bone.'

So passed that stout but choleric knight away; And we, by certain wandering instincts led, Made for a small pavilion, where we found Viands and what not, and the thirsty flower Of mountain knighthood gathered at the board. And entering, here we lingered, and discussed The what not, and the viands, and in time Drew to the tourney, giving each his views;-- But mostly wondering what the coolies thought To see these ladies of the Ruling Race, 'Yoked in all _exercise_ of noble end,' And Public Exhibition. Was it wise? Some questioned; others, was it quite the thing?

And here indeed we left it, for the shades Deepened, the high, swift-narrowing crest of day Brake from the hills, and down the path we went, Well pleased, for it was guest-night at the Club.

'FAREWELL'

'Farewell. What a subject! How sweet It looks to the careless observer! So simple; so easy to treat With tenderness, mark you, and fervour. _Farewell_. It's a poem; the song Of nightingales crying and calling!' O Reader, you're utterly wrong. It's not. It's appalling!

And yet when she asked me to send Some trifle of verse to remind her Of days that had come to an end, And one she was leaving behind her, It looked, as we stood on the shore, A theme so entirely delightsome That I, like a lunatic, swore (Quite calmly) to write some.

I've toiled with unwavering pluck; I've struggled if ever a man did; Infringed every postulate, stuck At nothing,--nay, once, to be candid, I shifted the cadence--designed A fresh but unauthorised _fare_-well; 'Twas plausible, too, but I find The thing doesn't wear well.

I know that it shouldn't be hard; That dozens, who claim to be poets, Could scribble off stuff by the yard And fare very well; and I know it's A theme that the Masters of Rhyme Have written some excellent verse on, Which proves, as I take it, that I'm Not that sort of person.

But that we can leave. It remains To state that my present appearance Is something too awful, my brains Are tending to wild incoherence; My mental condition's absurd; My thoughts are at sixes and sevens, Inextrica--lord! what a word! Inextri--good heavens!

My dear, you can do what you like,-- Forgive, or despise, or abuse me-- But frankly, I'm going on strike, And really you'll have to excuse me. Indeed it's my only resource, For, sure as I stuck to my promise, I'd Be booked in a week for a course Of sui-_cum_-homicide.

A HAPPY NEW YEAR

11.30 P.M., DEC. 31

Friend, when the year is on the wing, 'Tis held a fair and comely thing To turn reflective glances Over the days' forbidden Scroll, See if we're better on the whole, And average our chances.

Yet 'tis an awful thing to drag Each separate deed from out the bag That up till now has hidden 't, And bring before the shuddering view All that we swore we wouldn't do, Or should have done, but didn't.

The broken code, the baffled laws Our little private faults and flaws, And every naughty habit, Come whistling through the Waste of Life, Until one longs to take a knife, Feel for his heart, and stab it.

Unchanged, exultant, one and all Rise up spontaneous to the call, And bring their stings behind them; But when the search is duly plied For items on the credit side, One has a job to find them!

I know not _why_ they change. I know-- None better--how one's feelings grow Distinctly kin to mutiny, To see one's assets limping in, All too preposterously thin To stand a moment's scrutiny.

I know that shock must follow shock, Until the sole remaining Rock That all one's hopes exist on, Crumbles beneath the crushing force Of Conscience, kicking like a horse, And pounding like a piston.

Hardly a little year has past Since you, I take it, swore to cast Aside the bonds that girt you, And thought to stun the dazzled earth, A pillared Miracle of Worth, Raised on a plinth of Virtue.

One always does. One wonders why. One knows that, as the years go by, One finds the same old blunders, The same old acts, the same old words; And as one trots them out in herds, Or one by one, one wonders;

* * * * *

Another year,--a touch of grey,-- A little stiffness,--day by day We feel the need of, shall we say, Goggles to face the sun with,-- A little loss of youthful bloom,-- A little nearer to the Tomb! (Pardon this momentary gloom) Bang go the bells. _That's_ done with!

SAIREY

EXCERPTS FROM AN INCONGRUITY

_After A. C. S._

In Spring there are lashings of new books, In Autumn fresh novels are sold, They are many, but my shelf has few books, My comrades, the favourites of old; Tho' the roll of the cata-logues vary, Thou alone art unchangeably dear, O bibulous, beautiful Sairey, Our Lady of Cheer.

By the whites of thine eyes that were yellow, By the folds of thy duplicate chin, By thy voice that was husky but mellow With gin, with the richness of gin, By thy scorn of the boy that was Bragian, By thy wealth of perambulate swoons, O matchless and mystical Magian, Beguile us with boons.

For thou scatterest the evil before us With grave humours and exquisite speech, Till we heed not the 'new men that _bore_ us,' Nor regard the new women that screech; We are weak, but thy hand shall refresh us; We are faint, but we know thee sublime; More priceless than pills, and more precious Than draughts that are slime.

Thou hast lifted us forth from the _melly_, Thou hast told, with thick heavings of pride, Of the Package in Jonadge's belly, And the Camel that rich folks may ride; From the mire and the murk of a stern Age In the Font of St. Polge we are clean, O Gold as has passed through the Furnage, Our Lady and Queen.

* * * * *

In thy chamber where Holborn is highest, At the banquet, ere night had begun, Thou wert seated with her that was nighest Thy heart, save the Only, the One; For the hours of thy labour were ended, And the spirit of peace was within, And the fumes from the teapot ascended Of unsweetened gin.

Dost thou dream in dim dusk when light lingers, Of Betsy, the bage, the despiged, Who with snap of imperious fingers Hariçina, thy figment, deniged? Dost thou gasp at the shock of the blow sich As she, in her tantrum, let fall, Who 'didn't believe there was no sich A person' at all?

Fear not! Though the torters be frightful, Though the words that thou took'st unawares Be as serpiants that twine and are spiteful, O thou best of good creeturs, who cares? For the curse hath recoiled, and the stigma Thou hast turned to her sorrer and shame, While thy cryptic and sombre Enigma Is shrined in a Name.

* * * * *

And our wine shall not lack for thy throttle, Nor at night shall our portals be cloged, And thy lips thou shalt place to the bottle On our chimley, when so thou'rt dispoged; We have pickled 'intensely' our salmon; To thy moods are great cowcumbers dressed, O Daughter of Gumption and Gammon, Our Mistress and Guest!

And in hours when our lamp-ile has dwindled In deep walleys of uttermost pain, When our hopes to grey ashes are kindled, We are fain of thee still, we are fain; In this Piljian's Projiss of Woe, in This Wale of white shadders and damp, O Roge all a-blowin' and growin', We open our Gamp!

ADAM

_After W. W._

An adventure of the Author's, and one designed to show that grievances may be met with in the cottages of the humblest, and may take the most unexpected forms.

When in my white-washed walls confined Till eve her freedom brings, I often turn a musing mind To think awhile of things,

And thus about the noontide glow To-day my thoughts recalled Old Adam, whom I once did know, A dear old thing, though bald.

A village Gravedigger was he With Newgate fringe of grey, The only man that one could see At work on Saturday!

For on those evenings (which provide A due release to toil) He shovelled wearily, and plied His task upon the soil.

Therein a sorrow Adam had, And when he knew me well He told this tale, and made me sad, Which now to you I tell.

For once my feet did chance to stray Across the old churchyard, And Adam sighed, and paused to say 'It's werry, werry hard.'

I marvelled much to hear him sigh, And when he paused again, 'Come, come, you quaint old thing,' said I, 'Why thus this tone of pain?'

In silence Adam rose, and gained A seat amid the stones, And thus the veteran complained, The dear old bag of bones.

'Down by the wall the Village goes, How horrid sounds their glee, On Saturdays they early close, They have their Sundays free;

'And here, on this depressing spot, I cannot choose but moan That I, a labouring man, have not An hour to call my own.

'The Blacksmith in his Sunday things, The Clerk that leaves his till, Can give their thoughts of labour wings, And frolic as they will.

'To me they--drat 'em!--never give A thought; they wander by, An irritation while they live, A nuisance when they die.

'If there be one that needs lament The way these folks behave, 'Tis he whose holidays are spent In digging someone's grave,

'For when a person takes and dies, On Monday though it be, They _never_ hold his obsequies Till Sunday after three.

'And thus it fares through their delay, That I may not begin To dig the grave till Saturday,-- On Sunday fill it in.

'My Sabbath ease is broken through, My Saturdays destroyed; Many employ me; _very few Have left me unemployed_!'

Again did Adam murmur 'Drat!' And smote the old-churchyard, And said, as on his hands he spat, 'It's werry, werry hard!'

And as I rose, the path to take That led me home again, My head was in my wideawake, His words were in my brain.

ELEGY ON A RHINOCEROS

RECENTLY DECEASED

Come, let us weep for Begum; he is dead. Dead; and afar, where Thamis' waters lave The busy marge, he lies unvisited, Unsung; above no cypress branches wave, Nor tributary blossoms fringe his grave; Only would these poor numbers advertise His copious charms, and mourn for his demise.

Blithesome was he and beautiful; the Zoo Hath nought to match with Begum. He was one Of infinite humour; well indeed he knew To catch with mobile lips th' impetuous bun Tossed him-ward by some sire-encouraged son, Half-fearful, yet of pride fulfilled to note The dough, swift-homing down th' exultant throat.

Whilom he pensive stood, infoliate Of comfortable mud, and idly stirred His tiny caudal, disproportionate But not ungraceful, while a wanton herd Of revellers the mystic lens preferred; Whereof the focus rightly they addrest; And, Phoebus being kind, the button prest.

Then, being frolic, he, as one distraught, Would blindly, stumbling, seek the watery verge And sink, nor rise again. But when, untaught In craft, the mourners raised the untimely dirge, Lo! otherwhere himself would swift emerge Incontinent, and crisp his tasselled ears; And, all vivacious, own the sounding cheers.

Nothing of dark suspicion nor of guile Was limned on Begum; his the mirthful glance, The genial port, the comprehensive smile:-- The very sunbeams shimmering loved to dance Within that honest, open countenance;-- And far as eye could pierce, his roomy grin Was pink, as 'twere Aurora dwelt therein.

Yet he is dead! Whether the froward cates Some lawless lodgment found, nor coughs released: Or if adown those hospitable gates Drave the strong North, or shrilled the ravening East, And, ill-requiting, slew the wretched beast, We nothing know; only the news is cried, Begum is dead: we know not how he died.

Still, though the callous bards neglect to hymn Thy praises, Begum; though, on dross intent, The hireling sculptor pauseth not to limn Thy spacious visage, kindly hands are bent E'en now to stuff thy frail integument. Then sleep in peace, Belovèd; blest Sultân Of some Rhinokeraunian Devachân.

IN SEVERAL KEYS

No. 1

'MARIE'

We hear the opening refrain, Marie! We thought so; here you are again, Marie! A simple tune, in simple thirds, Beloved of after-dinner birds; A legend, self-condemned as 'words,' Marie!

She lingers by the flowing tide, Marie; A 'fisher-lad' is close beside Marie; He gazes in her 'eyes so blue'; _Marie, Marie, my heart is true_; And then,--you do, you know you do, Marie!--

But vain is every mortal wish, Marie; And 'fisher-lads' have got to fish, Marie; O blinding tears! O cheeks 'so' wet! _Marie, I come again!_ And yet I shouldn't feel disposed to bet, Marie!

A tempest drives across the wave, Marie; With triplets in the treble stave, Marie; The player pounds. With bulging eyes Th' excited vocalist replies; The maddened octaves drown his cries, Marie!

The storm is past. We hear again, Marie, The simple thirds, the waltz refrain, Marie; We only see some drifting wrack, An empty bunk, a battered smack, Alas! Alas!! Alack!!! Alack!!!! Marie!

O good old words, O 'tears that rise,' Marie! O good young fisher-lad that dies, Marie! We leave you on the lonely shore;-- You wave your hands for evermore, A bleak, disgusted semaphore, Marie!

IN SEVERAL KEYS

No. 2

THE BALLAD OF MORBID MOTHERS

Why do you sit in the churchyard weeping? Why do you cling to the dear old graves, When the dim, drear mists of the dusk are creeping Out of the marshes in wan, white waves? Darling, I know you're a slave to sorrow; Dearie, I _know_ that the world is cruel; But _you'll_ be in bed with a cold to-morrow, _I_ shall be running upstairs with gruel.

Why do you weep on a tombstone, Mammy, Sobbing alone in the drizzling sleet, When the chill mists rise, and the wind strikes clammy? Think of your bones, and your poor old feet! Darling, I know that you feel lugubrious; Dearie, I _know_ you must work this off; But graveyards are not, as a rule, salubrious, Whence the expression, a 'churchyard cough.'

[_The Old Lady explains her eccentric behaviour._]

Why do I ululate, dear my dearie, Coiled on a nastily mildewed tomb, When the horned owl hoots, and the world is weary, Weary of sorrow, and swamped in gloom? Childie my child, 'tis a cogent question; Dearie my dear, if you wish to know, Tis not that I suffer from indigestion, But that the Public ordains it so.

Babies, and Aunties, and dying brothers, Boom for a season, as 'loves' may part; But the old shop-ballad of Morbid Mothers Dives to the depths of the Public's heart. Dearie, with booms, at the best, precarious, All but the permanent needs must fail; And Childie, if Mammy became hilarious, Mammy would never command a sale.

THE STORY OF RUD.

Once for a tight little Island, fonder of ha'pence than kicks, Rud., a maker of verses, sang of an Empire of Bricks, Sang of the Sons of that Empire--told them they came of the Blood-- Rubbing it under their noses. _Read ye the Story of Rud_!

Pleased was the Public to hear it--rose in their hundreds to sing-- Swallowed it, chewed it, and gurgled: 'Verily, this is the thing! Thus do we wallop our foemen--roll 'em away in the mud-- This is the People that _we_ are. Glory and laurels for Rud.!'

Later he pictured a Panic--later he pictured a Scare, Pictured the burning of coast towns--skies in a reddening glare-- Pictured the Mafficking Million--collared, abortive, alone-- Out of the duty he owed them, pictured them down to the bone.

Sick was the Public to read it--passed it along to 'the Sports'-- 'Fools in the full-flannelled breeches, oafs in the muddy-patched shorts'-- Loafers and talkers and writers, furtively whispering low-- '_Say_ that it's like 'em--it _may_ be--nobody ever need know.

'Rud.,--would he drive us to Barracks--make of us militant hordes-- Broke to the spit of the pom-pom--trained to the flashing of swords?-- Pooh! It is _these_ that he goes for--Sport is the bubble he pricks-- Doubt not but _we_ are The People--Bricks of an Empire of Bricks!'

What of that maker of verses? Did he not answer the call: 'Loafers and talkers and writers, children or knaves are ye all; Look at the lines ere ye quote them: read, ere ye cackle as geese!'? Nay. But he passed from The People--left them to stew in their grease.

* * * * *

But a hyphen-ish growl makes answer: 'Ye that would take from the whole The one line robbed of the context, nor win to the straight-set Goal, Is it thus ye will fend the warning--thus ye will move the shame From the Mob that watch by the thousand, to the dozens that play the game? Still will ye pay at the turnstile--thronging the rope-ringed Match, Where the half-back fumbles the leather, or the deep-field butters the catch? Will ye thank your gods (being 'umble) that the fool and the oaf are found In the field, at the goal or the wicket, and _not_ in the seats around? _Not_ in the Saturday Squallers--men of a higher grade-- That lay down a law they know not, of a game that they have not played? Holding the folly of flannel, still will ye teach the Schools That Wisdom is dressed in shoddy, and how should the Wise be fools? Not doubting but ye are The People--ye are the Sons of The Blood? Loafers and talkers and writers,--_Read ye the Verses of Rud._!'

THE HAPPY ENDING

STANZAS WRITTEN IN DEJECTION

I am tired of the day with its profitless labours, And tired of the night with its lack of repose, I am sick of myself, my surroundings, and neighbours, Especially Aryan Brothers and crows; O land of illusory hope for the needy, O centre of soldiering, thirst, and shikar, When a broken-down exile begins to get seedy, What a beast of a country you are!

There are many, I know, that have honestly drawn a Most moving description of pleasures to win By the exquisite carnage of such of your fauna As Nature provides with a 'head' or a 'skin'; I know that a pig is magnificent sticking; But good as you are in the matter of sports, When a person's alive, so to put it, and kicking, You're a brute when a man's out of sorts.

For the moment he feels the effects of the weather-- A mild go of fever--a touch of the sun-- He arrives with a jerk at the end of his tether, And finds your attractions a bit overdone; Impatiently conscious of boredom and worry, He sits in his misery, scowling at grief, With a face like a pallid _rechauffée_ of curry, And a head like a lump of boiled beef.

I am sick of the day (as I happened to mention), And sick of the night (as I stated before), And it's oh, for the wings of a dove or a pension To carry me home to a happier shore! And oh, to be off, homeward bound, on the briny, Away from the tropics--away from the heat, And to take off a shocking old hat to the Shiny, As I shake off her dust from my feet!

THE FINEST VIEW

Away, away! The plains of Ind Have set their victim free; I give my sorrows to the wind, My sun-hat to the sea; And, standing with a chosen few, I watch a dying glow, The passing of the Finest View That all the world can show.

It would not fire an artist's eye, This View whereof I sing; Poets, no doubt, would pass it by As quite a common thing; The Tourist with belittling sniff Would find no beauties there-- He couldn't if he would, and if He could he wouldn't care.

Only for him that turns the back On dark and evil days It throws a glory down his track That sets his heart ablaze; A charm to make the wounded whole, Which wearied eyes may draw Luxuriously through the soul, Like cocktails through a straw.

I have seen strong men moved to tears When gazing o'er the deep, Hard men, whom I have known for years, Nor dreamt that they could weep; Even myself, though stern and cold Beyond the common line, Cannot, for very joy, withhold The tribute of my brine.

Farewell, farewell, thou best of Views! I leave thee to thy pain, And, while I have the power to choose, We shall not meet again; But, 'mid the scenes of joy and mirth, My fancies oft will turn Back to the Finest Sight on Earth, The Bombay Lights--_astern_!

HAVEN

Here, in mine old-time harbourage installed, Lulled by the murmurous hum of London's traffic To that full calm which may be justly called Seraphic,

I praise the gods; and vow, for my escape From the hard grip of premature Jehannun, One golden-tissued bottle of the grape Per annum.

For on this day, from Orient toils enlarged, Kneeling, I kissed the parent soil at Dover, Where a huge porter in his orbit charged Me over;

Flashed in the train by Shorncliffe's draughty camp; Gazed on the hurrying landscape's pastoral graces, Old farms, and happy fields (a trifle damp In places);

Passed the grim suburbs, indigent and bare Of natural foliage, but bravely flying Frank garlandry of last week's underwear Out drying;

And so to Town; and with that blessed sight I, a poor fevered wreck, forgot to shiver-- Forgot to mourn the Burden of my White Man's Liver;