off,
   Or folk be cutting weed,
While he doth at misfortune scoff,
   From every trouble freed.
Or else he waiteth for a rise,
   And ne’er a rise may see;
For why, there are not any flies
   To bear him company.

Or, if he mark a rising trout,
   He straightway is caught up,
And then he takes his flasket out,
   And drinks a rousing cup.
Or if a trout he chance to hook,
   Weeded and broke is he,
And then he finds a godly book
   Instructive company.

Off My Game.

“I’m of my game,” the golfer said,
   And shook his locks in woe;
“My putter never lays me dead,
   My drives will never go;
Howe’er I swing, howe’er I stand,
   Results are still the same,
I’m in the burn, I’m in the sand—
   I’m off my game!

“Oh, would that such mishaps might fall
   On Laidlay or Macfie,
That they might toe or heel the ball,
   And sclaff along like me!
Men hurry from me in the street,
   And execrate my name,
Old partners shun me when we meet—
   I’m off my game!

“Why is it that I play at all?
   Let memory remind me
How once I smote upon my ball,
   And bunkered it—behind me.
I mostly slice into the whins,
   And my excuse is lame—
It cannot cover half my sins—
   I’m off my game!

“I hate the sight of all my set,
   I grow morose as Byron;
I never loved a brassey yet,
   And now I hate an iron.
My cleek seems merely made to top,
   My putting’s wild or tame;
It’s really time for me to stop—
   I’m off my game!”

The Property of a Gentleman who has given up Collecting.

Oh blessed be the cart that takes
   Away my books, my curse, my clog,
Blessed the auctioneer who makes
   Their inefficient catalogue.

Blessed the purchasers who pay
   However little—less were fit—
Blessed the rooms, the rainy day,
   The knock-out and the end of it.

For I am weary of the sport,
   That seemed a while agone so sweet,
Of Elzevirs an inch too short,
   And First Editions—incomplete.

Weary of crests and coats of arms,
   “Attributed to Padeloup”
The sham Deromes have lost their charms,
   The things Le Gascon did not do.

I never read the catalogues
   Of rubbish that come thick as rooks,
But most I loathe the dreary dogs
   That write in prose, or worse, on books.

Large paper surely cannot hide
   Their grammar, nor excuse their rhyme,
The anecdotes that they provide
   Are older than the dawn of time.

Ye bores, of every shape and size,
   Who make a tedium of delight,
Good-bye, the last of my good-byes.
   Good night, to all your clan good night!

* * * *

Thus in a sullen fit we swore,
   But on mature reflection,
Went on collecting more and more,
   And kept our old collection!

The Ballade of the Subconscious Self.

Who suddenly calls to our ken
   The knowledge that should not be there;
Who charms Mr. Stead with the pen,
   Of the Prince of the Powers of the Air;
Who makes Physiologists stare—
   Is he ghost, is he demon, or elf,
Who fashions the dream of the fair?
   It is just the Subconscious Self.

He’s the ally of Medicine Men
   Who consult the Australian bear,
And ’tis he, with his lights on the fen,
   Who helps Jack o’ Lanthorn to snare
The peasants of Devon, who swear
   Under Commonwealth, Stuart, or Guelph,
That they never had half such a scare—
   It is just the Subconscious Self.

It is he, from his cerebral den,
   Who raps upon table and chair,
Who frightens the housemaid, and then
   Slinks back, like a thief, to his lair:
’Tis the Brownie (according to Mair)
   Who rattles the pots on the shelf,
But the Psychical sages declare
   “It is just the Subconscious Self.”

Prince, each of us all is a pair—
   The Conscious, who labours for pelf,
And the other, who charmed Mr. Blair,
   It is just the Subconscious Self.