Carsons
On his platform, for the populace to view;
Brown may muster all his Nonconformist parsons,
And a member of the Cabinet or two;
I shall need no brilliant orators, no Ministers of State,
If I only can rely on the support of Harry Tate!
Brown has posters: 'Vote for Brown and Old Age Pensions!'
Smith has placards: 'Vote for Smith and Work for All!'
I shall calmly call constituents' attentions
To the pet of ev'ry London music hall,
When I publish, as his message, on each flaming window-card:
'Every Vote you give to Johnson is a vote for Wilkie Bard!'
Can you wonder, then, that Independents rally
Round a candidate to whom the Fates allot
That his meetings shall be graced by Cinquevalli,
And his policy endorsed by Malcolm Scott?
Or that ev'ry one should mention—proud and humble, poor and rich—
That a vote for Mr. Johnson is a vote for Little Tich?
SCRIBBLERS ALL!
[In the House of Commons, Lord Claud Hamilton referred to Mr. Birrell as a 'distinguished scribbler.']
Who would be a Man of Letters,
Ink on paper daily dribbling,
In a fashion which his betters
Scornfully describe as 'scribbling'?
Who would practise a vocation
So unlucrative and painful,
To deserve a designation
Cruelly disdainful?
Pity pen- or pencil-nibblers
Labelled as 'distinguished scribblers'!
Sculptors are but seldom branded—
'Those illustrious plaster-shapers';
Violinists' friends, though candid,
Never call them 'catgut-scrapers.'
Styling painters 'canvas-scratchers'
Would offend against convention;
Surgeons as 'appendix-snatchers'
Nobody would mention.
Who would term Lord Claud's directors
'Guinea-pigs' or 'fee collectors'?
Yet, although no politicians
We entitle 'platform-stumpers,'
Nor refer to great musicians
As 'immortal pedal-thumpers,'
Though we name no leading jurist:
'This notorious legal-quibbler,'
Ev'ry writer of the purest
Prose shall be a 'scribbler,'
Till the Gribbles cease to gribble
And no more the Whibleys whibble! |
THE LYONS CUBS
['Waiting is a good, and often a lucrative profession, which must be freed from the hostile prejudice entertained by the ordinary British family. On the Continent and in America there is no such prejudice, and University men often find the profession worth entering.'—Evening Paper.]
I said to George, my eldest son,
'Now that your college days are done,
'And high opinions you have won
'For wisdom and discretion,
'The time has come, as I suspect,
'When you should ponder and reflect
'Upon your future, and select
'A calling or profession.'
He answered brightly, 'Righto, pater!
'I'd like to be a British waiter!'
'Come, George,' I said, 'don't be absurd!
'I asked what calling you preferred.
'The Bar (although, I've always heard,
'The work is something frightful),
'The Church, the Services, the Bench,
'Diplomacy—nay, do not blench,
'You know how good you are at French—
'Is each of them delightful;
'I'll come for your decision later.'
Said George, 'I wish to be a waiter!
'Yes, at some café let me wait;
'For though I stroked my College eight,
'The year they won the Ladies' Plate,
'How mean a triumph that is,
'Compared with his who daily bears
'Whole stacks of Ladies' Plates downstairs,
'Or "bumps" the backs of diners' chairs,
'At Evans's or Gatti's!
'A "first" in "Greats" I deem no greater
'Than every exploit of the waiter.
'When single-handed he controls
'Some half-a-dozen finger-bowls,
'Than any Fellow of All Souls
'More talent he evinces,
'And shows why those who feel the charm
'Of balancing without alarm
'Six soup-plates upon either arm,
'At Kettner's, Scott's, or Prince's,
'To Judge's wig or Bishop's gaiter
'Prefer the napkin of the waiter!' |
'THE CRIES OF LONDON'
No 'Milk below maid' now awakes
The city with her plaintive pipe;
No tuneful pedlar hawks 'Hot Cakes!'
No wench at dawn the silence breaks
With strains of 'Cherry Ripe!'
No cries of 'Mack'rel!' subtly blend
With 'Knives to grind!' or 'Chairs to mend!'
The fireman's shout no more we hear;
'Punch' and his satellites are dumb;
No more, when autumn days draw near,
Do songs of 'Lavender!' rise clear
Above the traffic's hum.
No 'China orange' now is sold;
The muffin's knell is mutely toll'd!
And yet our nerves are sorely tried—
Since Nature's lute has many a rift—
By 'cries' which Tube and 'bus provide:
'Fares please!' ''Old tight, miss!' 'Full inside!'
'No smoking in the lift!'
· · · ·
And oh! the gulf that separates
'Sweet lavender!' from 'Mind the gates!' |
THE MODEL FARM
['If you want good milk, butter, cheese, beef, mutton, and bacon, keep the animals which supply these things amused—give them toys, in fact.'—The Daily Mirror.]
When a friend after breakfast some compliment pays
To the nourishment recently taken,
When he mentions the eggs with expressions of praise,
And says flattering things of the bacon,
I conduct him at once to my farm on the Downs
Which is managed so blithely and brightly
That the brows of my cows are unwrinkled by
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