class="c6">I shall miss 'jam-pudding' my whole life through!
The gleam and the glamour, glimmering through it,
The steam that rises, to greet the sun,
The fragrant fumes of the jam and suet
That mix and mingle, to blend as one;
The white-capped cook who stirs so hard,
To twine the treacle and knead the lard,
To soak and season, to blend and brew it—
These things are over, and no more done!
I must go my ways (others shall follow),
Filling myself, till I rise replete,
With fugitive things not good to swallow,
Drink as my friends drink, eat what they eat;
But if I could hear that sound (O squish!)
Of the 'roly-poly' leaving its dish,
My heart would be lighter, my life less hollow,
At sight of my childhood's favourite sweet!
Ah, why do I live in an age that winces
At 'shape' (blanc-mange) of a bygone brand,
At tripe and trotters, at stews and minces,
At hash or at haggis, heavy in hand?
Come lunch, come dinner, no word is said
Of the jam that in suet so veils its head.
I shall never eat it again, for at Princes'
If I cry for it there, will they understand?
EGREGIOUS EASTBOURNE
[A recent by-law of the Eastbourne Town Council renders the owner of any dog who barks upon the beach liable to a fine of forty shillings.]
Never more shall I and Ponto
Traverse the Marine Parade,
Pass the Pier and wander onto
Eastbourne's Esplanade;
Never more, with lungs like leather,
And a heart as light as feather,
Shall we stray and play together
Where we strayed and played!
On the cruel Council's shingle
Man and beast no more may mingle!
With what never-ending rapture
Ponto would retrieve a stone,
Leap into the sea and capture
Sticks, wherever thrown;
Issue dripping from the ocean,
With his tail in constant motion,
And express his true devotion
In a strident tone,
Till the Judge, his license marking,
Fined him forty bob for barking!
Still, upon the sands, sopranos
Topmost notes in anguish reach,
Masked musicians thump pianos,
Negro minstrels screech;
German bandsmen blare and bellow,
But my Ponto, poor old fellow,
May not raise his loud but mellow
Bark upon the beach!
'Dumb,' indeed, is every beast born
In the neighbourhood of Eastbourne! |
SARAH OWEN
[A provincial schoolmaster wrote to the Daily Mail to say that he had canvassed his employees on the subject of the Insurance Bill and found that out of forty-two domestics only one—'Sarah Owen, sewing-maid'—was in favour of the Servant Tax.]
Come, children, gather round and hark
To my entrancing tale!
For though you've heard of Joan of Arc,
Of brave Grace Darling in her barque,
Of Florence Nightingale,
Not one of these such nerve displayed
As Sarah Owen, sewing-maid!
Her master ranged his forty-two
Domestics in a row.
As from his breast the Bill he drew,
'Shall this be borne,' he asked, 'by you?'
Though forty-one said 'No!'
'My threepence will be gladly paid!'
Said Sarah Owen, sewing-maid.
In vain his head the butler shook,
The gard'ner's grins grew broad,
The housemaids wore a scornful look,
'What imperence!' exclaimed the cook,
The 'handy man' guffawed.
Serene, intrepid, unafraid,
Stood Sarah Owen, sewing-maid!
And whether she was right or wrong,
She showed a dauntless will,
A firm resolve, a purpose strong,
Which move me like a battle-song
And make my bosom thrill!
The fame and name shall never fade
Of Sarah Owen, sewing-maid! |
THE LAST HORSED 'BUS
Fare thee well, thou plum-faced driver,
Poised upon thine airy seat!
Final, ultimate survivor
Of an order obsolete!
Fare thee well! Thy days are numbered.
Long, full long, by weight encumbered,
Tardily thy team hath lumbered
Down each London Street,
Passed by carts, bath-chairs, and hearses,
And the cause of constant curses!
Fare thee well, conductor sprightly,
Gay and buoyant pachyderm,
Holding up thy 'bus politely
For each passenger infirm;
Yet, when roused to indignation
By a rival's reprobation,
How adroit in the creation
Of some caustic term!
Deft to ridicule or rally,
Swift with satire as with sally!
Ancient Omnibus ungainly,
We shall miss thee, day by day,
When thy swift successors vainly
We with signals would delay;
When upon their platforms perching,
With each oscillation lurching,
We are perilously searching
For the safest way
To alight without disaster,
While we speed each moment faster!
As our means of locomotion,
Year by year, more deadly grow,
We shall think with fond devotion
Of thy stately gait and slow.
Harassed, vexed, fatigued, and flurried,
Shaken, discomposed, and worried,
As in motors we are hurried
Wildly to and fro,
We perchance shall not disparage
Horse-drawn omnibus or carriage! |
STAGE SUPPORT
[The prospective Unionist candidate for Hoxton, at his first meeting, was supported by Lord Shrewsbury, the Hon. Claude Hay, and Mr. George Robey.]
When I stand as 'Independent' next election,
I shall vanquish my opponents, Smith and Brown.
(Smith's a Unionist, in favour of Protection,
Brown's a Radical Free Trader of renown.)
But my triumph at the polls I shall attribute, I confess,
To the men of light and leading whose assistance spelt success.
Smith may marshal Austen Chamberlains and
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