id="FNanchor_2_2"/>[2])!
And a poet who the populace enrages
By an out-of-date endeavour to combine
The dispiriting solemnity of sages
With the quill-work of the fretful porcupine,
Is considered so unworthy of his wages
That the public will not read a single line,
And his gems will never sparkle in the pages
Of a volume such as mine!
RHYMES FOR THE TIMES
'WHAT'S IN A NAME?'
[Lord Lincolnshire pointed out that Britain's glory has always depended very largely upon men whose names suggest no historical associations; upon the Browns and the McGhees, as well as upon the Willoughbys, the Talbots, and the Cecils.]
In praise of many a noble name,
Let lesser poets chaunt a pæan;
The deathless fame will I proclaim
Of others, more plebeian.
Let minstrels sing of Montagues,
Of Scots and Brabazons and Percys,
While lovers of the Muse (or Meux)
On Lambtons base their verses.
My lyre, which neither mocks nor mimics,
Shall laud the humbler patronymics.
Though Talbots may have led the van,
And fought the battles of the nation,
'Twas but a simple Elliman
Invented embrocation!
Though Churchills many a triumph won,
And Stanleys made their world adore them,
'Twas Pickford—ay, and Paterson—
Who 'carried' all before them!
Not twice, in our rough island story,
Was Smith synonymous with glory!
The snob may snigger, if he likes;
But on the rolls of Greater Britain
The famous name of William Sikes
Immortally is written;
And when men speak, in sneering tones,
Of Brown, Jones, Robinson (They do so!),
I always cite John Brown, Burne-Jones
And Robinson Caruso,
And thus, with bright examples, teach 'em
That Beecham's quite as good as Beauchamp! |
NOBODY'S DARLING!
['Nobody loves millionaires any more.'—Mr. Zimmerman.]
Time was when Society wooed me,
The populace fawned at my feet;
Men petted and praised and pursued me,
My social success was complete.
The pick of the Peerage, with smiles on their faces,
Would sell me their family portraits and places.
With stairs of pure marble below me,
My stand as a host I would take,
While guests (who, of course, didn't know me)
The hand of my butler would shake,
Averring, in phrases delightfully hearty,
How much they enjoyed his agreeable party.
I gave away libraries gratis,
Each village and town to adorn,
Till with the expression 'Jam satis!'
Lord Rosebery laughed them to scorn;
And soon Mr. Gosse and the groundlings were snarling
At one who must style himself Nobody's Darling!
And now when I purchase their pictures,
Or bid for some family seat,
Men pass most disparaging strictures,
Discussing my action with heat;
While newspapers term it a 'public disaster'
Each time I endeavour to buy an Old Master!
The country I rob of its treasures
(By carting its ruins away!);
I lessen all popular pleasures
By spoiling the market, they say;
And so they invoke Mr. George's assistance
To tax the poor plutocrat out of existence! |
ROSES ALL THE WAY
['Mr. Frank Lascelles left London yesterday for Calcutta. As he entered the railway carriage at Victoria, Lady Jane Kenney-Herbert handed him a basket of roses.'—The Times.]
Each year in vain I take the train
To Dinard, Trouville or Le Touquet;
No lady fair is ever there
To speed me with a bouquet;
No maiden on my brow imposes
A snood of Gloire de Dijon roses!
No purple phlox adorns the locks
Of scanty hair that fringe my cranium;
No garlands deck my shapely neck
With jasmine or geranium.
I travel, like a social pariah,
Without a single calceolaria!
Though up and down I 'train' to town,
Each day, with fellow-clerk or broker,
No female hand has ever planned
To trim my third-class 'smoker,'
To wreathe the rack with scarlet dahlias,
Or drape the seats with pink azaleas!
Let others envy wealthy men
—The Rothschilds, Vanderbilts or Cassels—
I'd much prefer, I must aver,
Like lucky Mr. Lascelles,
To travel well supplied with posies
Of (on the 'Underground') Tube-roses! |
THE TRIUMPH OF JAM
(With shamefaced apologies to the author of a beautiful poem)
[The Daily Mirror, in a leading article, deplored the fact that 'roly-poly' pudding, otherwise known as 'jam-roll,' was not to be obtained at fashionable West End restaurants.]
Although our wives deride for ever,
Though cooks grow captious or gaze aghast
(Cooks, swift to sunder, to slash and sever
The ties that bind us to things long past),
We will say as much as a man might wish
Whose whole life's love comes up on a dish,
Which he never again may feast on, and never
Shall taste of more while the ages last.
I shall never again be friends with 'rolies,'
I shall lack sweet 'polies' where, thick like glue,
The jam in some secret Holy of Holies
Crouches and cowers from mortal view.
There are tastes that a tongue would fain forget,
There are savours the soul must e'er regret;
My tongue how hungry, how starved my soul is!
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