Chapter 4
WHEN you’re lying awake with a dismal headache, and repose is taboo’d by anxiety, I conceive you may use any language you choose to indulge in without impropriety; For your brain is on fire—the bedclothes conspire of usual slumber to plunder you: First your counterpane goes and uncovers your toes, and your sheet slips demurely from under you; Then the blanketing tickles—you feel like mixed pickles, so terribly sharp is the pricking, And you’re hot, and you’re cross, and you tumble and toss till there’s nothing ’twixt you and the ticking. Then the bedclothes all creep to the ground in a heap, and you pick ’em all up in a tangle; Next your pillow resigns and politely declines to remain at its usual angle! Well, you get some repose in the form of a doze, with hot eyeballs and head ever aching, But your slumbering teems with such horrible dreams that you’d very much better be waking; For you dream you are crossing the Channel, and tossing about in a steamer from Harwich, Which is something between a large bathing-machine and a very small second-class carriage; And you’re giving a treat (penny ice and cold meat) to a party of friends and relations— They’re a ravenous horde—and they all came on board at Sloane Square and South Kensington Stations. And bound on that journey you find your attorney (who started that morning from Devon); He’s a bit undersized, and you don’t feel surprised when he tells you he’s only eleven. Well, you’re driving like mad with this singular lad (by the bye the ship’s now a four-wheeler), And you’re playing round games, and he calls you bad names when you tell him that “ties pay the dealer”; But this you can’t stand, so you throw up your hand, and you find you’re as cold as an icicle, In your shirt and your socks (the black silk with gold clocks), crossing Salisbury Plain on a bicycle: And he and the crew are on bicycles too—which they’ve somehow or other invested in— And he’s telling the tars all the particu_lars_ of a company he’s interested in— It’s a scheme of devices, to get at low prices, all goods from cough mixtures to cables (Which tickled the sailors) by treating retailers, as though they were all vege_ta_bles— You get a good spadesman to plant a small tradesman (first take off his boots with a boot-tree), And his legs will take root, and his fingers will shoot, and they’ll blossom and bud like a fruit-tree— From the greengrocer tree you get grapes and green pea, cauliflower, pineapple, and cranberries, While the pastry-cook plant cherry-brandy will grant—apple puffs, and three-corners, and banberries— The shares are a penny, and ever so many are taken by ROTHSCHILD and BARING, And just as a few are allotted to you, you awake with a shudder despairing— You’re a regular wreck, with a crick in your neck, and no wonder you snore, for your head’s on the floor, and you’ve needles and pins from your soles to your shins, and your flesh is a-creep, for your left leg’s asleep, and you’ve cramp in your toes, and a fly on your nose, and some fluff in your lung, and a feverish tongue, and a thirst that’s intense, and a general sense that you haven’t been sleeping in clover; But the darkness has passed, and it’s daylight at last, and the night has been long—ditto, ditto my song—and thank goodness they’re both of them over!
DON’T FORGET!
NOW, Marco, dear, My wishes hear: While you’re away It’s understood You will be good, And not too gay. To every trace Of maiden grace You will be blind, And will not glance By any chance On womankind! If you are wise, You’ll shut your eyes Till we arrive, And not address A lady less Than forty-five; You’ll please to frown On every gown That you may see; And O, my pet, You won’t forget You’ve married me!
O, my darling, O, my pet, Whatever else you may forget, In yonder isle beyond the sea, O, don’t forget you’ve married me!
You’ll lay your head Upon your bed At set of sun. You will not sing Of anything To any one: You’ll sit and mope All day, I hope, And shed a tear Upon the life Your little wife Is passing here! And if so be You think of me, Please tell the moon; I’ll read it all In rays that fall On the lagoon: You’ll be so kind As tell the wind How you may be, And send me words By little birds To comfort me!
And O, my darling, O, my pet, Whatever else you may forget, In yonder isle beyond the sea, O, don’t forget you’ve married me!
THE SUICIDE’S GRAVE
ON a tree by a river a little tomtit Sang “Willow, titwillow, titwillow!” And I said to him, “Dicky-bird, why do you sit Singing ‘Willow, titwillow, titwillow’? Is it weakness of intellect, birdie?” I cried, “Or a rather tough worm in your little inside?” With a shake of his poor little head he replied, “Oh, willow, titwillow, titwillow!”
He slapped at his chest, as he sat on that bough, Singing “Willow, titwillow, titwillow!” And a cold perspiration bespangled his brow, Oh, willow, titwillow, titwillow! He sobbed and he sighed, and a gurgle he gave, Then he threw himself into the billowy wave, And an echo arose from the suicide’s grave— “Oh, willow, titwillow, titwillow!”
Now I feel just as sure as I’m sure that my name Isn’t Willow, titwillow, titwillow, That ’twas blighted affection that made him exclaim, “Oh, willow, titwillow, titwillow!” And if you remain callous and obdurate, I Shall perish as he did, and you will know why, Though I probably shall not exclaim as I die, “Oh, willow, titwillow, titwillow!”
HE AND SHE
HE. I know a youth who loves a little maid— (Hey, but his face is a sight for to see!) Silent is he, for he’s modest and afraid— (Hey, but he’s timid as a youth can be!) SHE. I know a maid who loves a gallant youth— (Hey, but she sickens as the days go by!) _She_ cannot tell him all the sad, sad truth— (Hey, but I think that little maid will die!) BOTH. Now tell me pray, and tell me true, What in the world should the poor soul do?
HE. He cannot eat and he cannot sleep— (Hey, but his face is a sight for to see!) Daily he goes for to wail—for to weep— (Hey, but he’s wretched as a youth can be!) SHE. She’s very thin and she’s very pale— (Hey, but she sickens as the days go by!) Daily she goes for to weep—for to wail— (Hey, but I think that little maid will die!) BOTH. Now tell me pray, and tell me true, What in the world should the poor soul do?
SHE. If I were the youth I should offer her my name— (Hey, but her face is a sight for to see!) HE. If I were the maid I should fan his honest flame— (Hey, but he’s bashful as a youth can be!) SHE. If I were the youth I should speak to her to-day— (Hey, but she sickens as the days go by!) HE. If I were the maid I should meet the lad half way— (For I really do believe that timid youth will die!) BOTH. I thank you much for your counsel true; I’ve learnt what that poor soul ought to do!
THE MIGHTY MUST
COME mighty Must! Inevitable Shall! In thee I trust. Time weaves my coronal! Go mocking Is! Go disappointing Was! That I am this Ye are the cursed cause! Yet humble Second shall be First, I ween; And dead and buried be the curst Has Been!
Oh weak Might Be! Oh May, Might, Could, Would, Should! How powerless ye For evil or for good! In every sense Your moods I cheerless call, Whate’er your tense Ye are Imperfect, all! Ye have deceived the trust I’ve shown In ye! Away! The Mighty Must alone Shall be!
A MIRAGE
WERE I thy bride, Then the whole world beside Were not too wide To hold my wealth of love— Were I thy bride! Upon thy breast My loving head would rest, As on her nest The tender turtle-dove— Were I thy bride!
This heart of mine Would be one heart with thine, And in that shrine Our happiness would dwell— Were I thy bride! And all day long Our lives should be a song: No grief, no wrong Should make my heart rebel— Were I thy bride!
The silvery flute, The melancholy lute, Were night-owl’s hoot To my low-whispered coo— Were I thy bride! The skylark’s trill Were but discordance shrill To the soft thrill Of wooing as I’d woo— Were I thy bride!
The rose’s sigh Were as a carrion’s cry To lullaby Such as I’d sing to thee— Were I thy bride! A feather’s press Were leaden heaviness To my caress. But then, unhappily, I’m not thy bride!
THE GHOSTS’ HIGH NOON
WHEN the night wind howls in the chimney cowls, and the bat in the moonlight flies, And inky clouds, like funeral shrouds, sail over the midnight skies— When the footpads quail at the night-bird’s wail, and black dogs bay the moon, Then is the spectres’ holiday—then is the ghosts’ high noon!
As the sob of the breeze sweeps over the trees, and the mists lie low on the fen, From grey tombstones are gathered the bones that once were women and men, And away they go, with a mop and a mow, to the revel that ends too soon, For cockcrow limits our holiday—the dead of the night’s high noon!
And then each ghost with his ladye-toast to their churchyard beds take flight, With a kiss, perhaps, on her lantern chaps, and a grisly grim “good night”; Till the welcome knell of the midnight bell rings forth its jolliest tune, And ushers our next high holiday—the dead of the night’s high noon!
THE HUMANE MIKADO
A MORE humane Mikado never Did in Japan exist; To nobody second, I’m certainly reckoned A true philanthropist. It is my very humane endeavour To make, to some extent, Each evil liver A running river Of harmless merriment.
My object all sublime I shall achieve in time— To let the punishment fit the crime— The punishment fit the crime; And make each prisoner pent Unwillingly represent A source of innocent merriment— Of innocent merriment!
All prosy dull society sinners, Who chatter and bleat and bore, Are sent to hear sermons From mystical Germans Who preach from ten to four: The amateur tenor, whose vocal villainies All desire to shirk, Shall, during off-hours, Exhibit his powers To Madame Tussaud’s waxwork: The lady who dyes a chemical yellow, Or stains her grey hair puce, Or pinches her figger, Is blacked like a nigger With permanent walnut juice: The idiot who, in railway carriages, Scribbles on window panes, We only suffer To ride on a buffer In Parliamentary trains.
My object all sublime I shall achieve in time— To let the punishment fit the crime— The punishment fit the crime; And make each prisoner pent Unwillingly represent A source of innocent merriment— Of innocent merriment!
The advertising quack who wearies With tales of countless cures, His teeth, I’ve enacted, Shall all be extracted By terrified amateurs: The music-hall singer attends a series Of masses and fugues and “ops” By Bach, interwoven With Spohr and Beethoven, At classical Monday Pops: The billiard sharp whom any one catches His doom’s extremely hard— He’s made to dwell In a dungeon cell On a spot that’s always barred; And there he plays extravagant matches In fitless finger-stalls, On a cloth untrue With a twisted cue, And elliptical billiard balls!
My object all sublime I shall achieve in time— To let the punishment fit the crime— The punishment fit the crime; And make each prisoner pent Unwillingly represent A source of innocent merriment, Of innocent merriment!
WILLOW WALY!
HE. PRITHEE, pretty maiden—prithee, tell me true (Hey, but I’m doleful, willow, willow waly!) Have you e’er a lover a-dangling after you? Hey, willow waly O! I would fain discover If you have a lover? Hey, willow waly O!
SHE. Gentle sir, my heart is frolicsome and free— (Hey, but he’s doleful, willow, willow waly!) Nobody I care for comes a-courting me— Hey, willow waly O! Nobody I care for Comes a-courting—therefore, Hey, willow waly O!
HE. Prithee, pretty maiden, will you marry me? (Hey, but I’m hopeful, willow, willow waly!) I may say, at once, I’m a man of propertee— Hey, willow waly O! Money, I despise it, But many people prize it, Hey, willow waly O!
SHE. Gentle sir, although to marry I design— (Hey, but he’s hopeful, willow, willow waly!) As yet I do not know you, and so I must decline. Hey, willow waly O! To other maidens go you— As yet I do not know you, Hey, willow waly O!
LIFE IS LOVELY ALL THE YEAR
WHEN the buds are blossoming, Smiling welcome to the spring, Lovers choose a wedding day— Life is love in merry May!
Spring is green—Fal lal la! Summer’s rose—Fal lal la! It is sad when Summer goes, Fal la! Autumn’s gold—Fal lal la! Winter’s grey—Fal lal la! Winter still is far away— Fal la! Leaves in Autumn fade and fall; Winter is the end of all. Spring and summer teem with glee: Spring and summer, then, for me! Fal la!
In the Spring-time seed is sown: In the Summer grass is mown: In the Autumn you may reap: Winter is the time for sleep.
Spring is hope—Fal lal la! Summer’s joy—Fal lal la! Spring and Summer never cloy, Fal la! Autumn, toil—Fal lal la! Winter, rest—Fal lal la! Winter, after all, is best— Fal la! Spring and summer pleasure you, Autumn, ay, and winter, too— Every season has its cheer; Life is lovely all the year! Fal la!
THE USHER’S CHARGE
NOW, Jurymen, hear my advice— All kinds of vulgar prejudice I pray you set aside: With stern judicial frame of mind— From bias free of every kind, This trial must be tried!
Oh, listen to the plaintiff’s case: Observe the features of her face— The broken-hearted bride! Condole with her distress of mind— From bias free of every kind, This trial must be tried!
And when amid the plaintiff’s shrieks, The ruffianly defendant speaks— Upon the other side; What _he_ may say you need not mind— From bias free of every kind, This trial must be tried!
THE GREAT OAK TREE
THERE grew a little flower ’Neath a great oak tree: When the tempest ’gan to lower Little heeded she: No need had she to cower, For she dreaded not its power— She was happy in the bower Of her great oak tree! Sing hey, Lackaday! Let the tears fall free For the pretty little flower and the great oak tree!
When she found that he was fickle, Was that great oak tree, She was in a pretty pickle, As she well might be— But his gallantries were mickle, For Death followed with his sickle, And her tears began to trickle For her great oak tree! Sing hey, Lackaday! Let the tears fall free For the pretty little flower and the great oak tree!
Said she, “He loved me never, Did that great oak tree, But I’m neither rich nor clever, And so why should he? But though fate our fortunes sever, To be constant I’ll endeavour, Ay, for ever and for ever, To my great oak tree!” Sing hey, Lackaday! Let the tears fall free For the pretty little flower and the great oak tree!
KING GOODHEART
THERE lived a King, as I’ve been told In the wonder-working days of old, When hearts were twice as good as gold, And twenty times as mellow. Good temper triumphed in his face, And in his heart he found a place For all the erring human race And every wretched fellow. When he had Rhenish wine to drink It made him very sad to think That some, at junket or at jink, Must be content with toddy: He wished all men as rich as he (And he was rich as rich could be), So to the top of every tree Promoted everybody.
Ambassadors cropped up like hay, Prime Ministers and such as they Grew like asparagus in May, And Dukes were three a penny: Lord Chancellors were cheap as sprats, And Bishops in their shovel hats Were plentiful as tabby cats— If possible, too many. On every side Field-Marshals gleamed, Small beer were Lords-Lieutenants deemed, With Admirals the ocean teemed, All round his wide dominions; And Party Leaders you might meet In twos and threes in every street Maintaining, with no little heat, Their various opinions.
That King, although no one denies, His heart was of abnormal size, Yet he’d have acted otherwise If he had been acuter. The end is easily foretold, When every blessed thing you hold Is made of silver, or of gold, You long for simple pewter. When you have nothing else to wear But cloth of gold and satins rare, For cloth of gold you cease to care— Up goes the price of shoddy: In short, whoever you may be, To this conclusion you’ll agree, When every one is somebody, Then no one’s anybody!
SLEEP ON!
FEAR no unlicensed entry, Heed no bombastic talk, While guards the British Sentry Pall Mall and Birdcage Walk. Let European thunders Occasion no alarms, Though diplomatic blunders May cause a cry “To arms!” Sleep on, ye pale civilians; All thunder-clouds defy: On Europe’s countless millions The Sentry keeps his eye!
Should foreign-born rapscallions In London dare to show Their overgrown battalions, Be sure I’ll let you know. Should Russians or Norwegians Pollute our favoured clime With rough barbaric legions, I’ll mention it in time. So sleep in peace, civilians, The Continent defy; While on its countless millions The Sentry keeps his eye!
THE LOVE-SICK BOY
WHEN first my old, old love I knew, My bosom welled with joy; My riches at her feet I threw; I was a love-sick boy! No terms seemed too extravagant Upon her to employ— I used to mope, and sigh, and pant, Just like a love-sick boy!
But joy incessant palls the sense; And love unchanged will cloy, And she became a bore intense Unto her love-sick boy? With fitful glimmer burnt my flame, And I grew cold and coy, At last, one morning, I became Another’s love-sick boy!
POETRY EVERYWHERE
WHAT time the poet hath hymned The writhing maid, lithe-limbed, Quivering on amaranthine asphodel, How can he paint her woes, Knowing, as well he knows, That all can be set right with calomel?
When from the poet’s plinth The amorous colocynth Yearns for the aloe, faint with rapturous thrills, How can he hymn their throes Knowing, as well he knows, That they are only uncompounded pills?
Is it, and can it be, Nature hath this decree, Nothing poetic in the world shall dwell? Or that in all her works Something poetic lurks, Even in colocynth and calomel?
HE LOVES!
HE loves! If in the bygone years Thine eyes have ever shed Tears—bitter, unavailing tears, For one untimely dead— If in the eventide of life Sad thoughts of her arise, Then let the memory of thy wife Plead for my boy—he dies!
He dies! If fondly laid aside In some old cabinet, Memorials of thy long-dead bride Lie, dearly treasured yet, Then let her hallowed bridal dress— Her little dainty gloves— Her withered flowers—her faded tress— Plead for my boy—he loves!
TRUE DIFFIDENCE
MY boy, you may take it from me, That of all the afflictions accurst With which a man’s saddled And hampered and addled, A diffident nature’s the worst. Though clever as clever can be— A Crichton of early romance— You must stir it and stump it, And blow your own trumpet, Or, trust me, you haven’t a chance.
Now take, for example, _my_ case: I’ve a bright intellectual brain— In all London city There’s no one so witty— I’ve thought so again and again. I’ve a highly intelligent face— My features cannot be denied— But, whatever I try, sir, I fail in—and why, sir? I’m modesty personified!
As a poet, I’m tender and quaint— I’ve passion and fervour and grace— From Ovid and Horace To Swinburne and Morris, They all of them take a back place. Then I sing and I play and I paint; Though none are accomplished as I, To say so were treason: You ask me the reason? I’m diffident, modest, and shy!
THE TANGLED SKEIN
TRY we life-long, we can never Straighten out life’s tangled skein, Why should we, in vain endeavour, Guess and guess and guess again? Life’s a pudding full of plums Care’s a canker that benumbs. Wherefore waste our elocution On impossible solution? Life’s a pleasant institution, Let us take it as it comes!
Set aside the dull enigma, We shall guess it all too soon; Failure brings no kind of stigma— Dance we to another tune! String the lyre and fill the cup, Lest on sorrow we should sup; Hop and skip to Fancy’s fiddle, Hands across and down the middle— Life’s perhaps the only riddle That we shrink from giving up!
MY LADY