imagination,
And they believe for the rest of their natural lives
That the affable motorist aforesaid
Must have been travelling
At the rate of anything from 60 to 600 miles per minute.
Hence, my dear motorist,
It comes to pass that you are afforded so many opportunities
For airing your eloquence and the fatness of your purse
Before the police magistrates.
In my opinion it seems just possible
That the real trouble lies in the fact
That you, my dear sir, do actually
Go through villages at a very low speed,
And that really the best thing you can do
Would be to make a point of going through them
At the highest speed consistent
With the safety of your own person.
For if you did this,
No policeman of my acquaintance would be able to catch you,
Hence you would never be fined.
I have been out of sympathy with motor cars
Right up to the other night.
The other night I had the felicity to take a small trip on one.
The motorist would fain have driven me to my house,
Which is half an hour's cab drive from Charing Cross.
He offered to do the distance in ten minutes
And started stirring up his petroleum,
But I said "No. Let us go to the Marble Arch."
We went through the Mall, to Hyde Park Corner,
to South Kensington, to Paddington,
Into the Edgware Road, and so to the Marble Arch;
Time, at the outside, 15 min.
I am willing to admit
That we went down certain streets quite rapidly,
What time the policemen at odd corners stared stupidly,
And fumbled for their note-books.
But, as a result of that trip, my dear sir,
I have become an enthusiastic motorist.
I am convinced that speed and wind and the smell of petroleum mixed
Is the only thing which can be considered worth living for.
And if you happen to know anybody
Who would be willing to take
A typewriter and a pair of skates (not much worn)
In exchange for a Durkopp racer,
Kindly communicate with me.

TO NEXT CHRISTMAS

My dear Next Christmas,—
It is an excellent journalistic thing,
Not to say a poetical thing,
To be first in the field.
Behold me, therefore, advancing
At the head of that motley army
Which will inevitably hail you
When your time comes.
For your predecessor,
My dear Next Christmas,
I cannot say much.
He came in with several thousand inches of rain;
He went out on a watery moon.
There was turkey as usual,
Pudding as usual,
Mistletoe as usual,
Peace on earth as usual.
There were also the waits,
The young folks,
The postman,
The dustman
(No connection with the scavengers),
And the turncock.
We had a merry day.
Half the world pretended to be happy,
The other half pretended to be bored.
The festivities, I understand,
Are still being kept up.
There is a ping-pong tournament at the Queen's Hall
And a children's banquet
At the Guildhall on Tuesday evening;
Not to mention Mr. Dan Leno at Drury Lane
And Mr. De Wet at the Tweefontein.
It is all very cheerful
And very inspiriting.
All the same,
Let us not repine:
        Christmas comes but once a year,
        And it will come again, I fear.
This couplet, of course.
My dear Next Christmas,
Is not intended to be
Disrespectful to you;
It is inserted simply
For the sake of effect.
For I never miss an opportunity
Of bursting into rhyme.
When the way is plain before me.
My dear Next Christmas,
Do not be discouraged,
Come next year by all means;
If I said "Don't come"
You would come just the same.
Therefore, I say "Come,"
And I trust, my dear Next Christmas,
That when you do come
You will bring us a little luck.
Ring out the old, as it were,
And ring in the new;
Let candied peel
Be a trifle cheaper;
Let the war be settled
To the satisfaction of both parties;
Let the book trade flourish;
Let the Income-tax be reduced:
Let there be a fine Christmas Eve
And dry waits,
And a little skating next morning;
Let there be peace and plenty,
A pocket full of money,
And a barrel full of beer,
And all other good things,
Including a free and enlightened Press,
And a strong demand
For seasonable poetry.
My dear Next Christmas,
Here is my hand,
With my heart in it.
Till we meet again—
As Mr. Hall Caine says—
Addio.

TO THE TRIPPER

My dear Sir, or Madam,—
When James Watt,
Or some such person,
Had the luck
To see a kettle boil,
He little dreamed
That he was discovering you,
Otherwise he would have let his kettle boil
For a million million years
Without saying anything about it.
However,
James Watt
Omitted to take cognisance of the ultimate trouble,
And here you are.
And here, alas! you will stay,
Till our iron roads are beaten into ploughshares,
And Messrs. Cook & Sons are at rest.
"When I was young, a single man,
And after youthful follies ran"
(Which, strange as it may seem, is Wordsworth)
Your goings to and fro upon the earth,
And walkings up and down thereon,
Were limited by the day trip.
For half-a-crown
You went to Brighton,
Or to Buxton and Matlock,
Or Stratford-on-Avon,
As the case may be.
A special tap of ale
And a special cut of 'am
Were put on for your delectation;
You sang a mixture of hymns
And music-hall songs
On your homeward journey,
And there was an end of the matter.
But nowadays there is no escape from you.
The trip that was over and done
In twenty-four hours at most
Has become a matter
Of "Saturday to Monday at Sunny Saltburn,"
"Ten days in Lovely Lucerne,"
And "A Visit to the Holy Land for Ten Guineas."
Wherever one goes
On this wide globe
There shall one find
Your empty ginger-beer bottle and your old newspaper;
The devastations,
Fence-breakings,
And flower-pot maraudings
Which you once reserved for noblemen's seats
Are now extended to the Rigi,
The Bridge of Sighs,
Mount Everest,
And the deserts of Gobi
And Shamo.
Indeed, I question whether it would be possible
For one to traverse
The trackless forests of Mexico
Or "the dreary tundras of remote Siberia,"
Or to put one's nose
Into such an uncompromising fastness as Craig Ell Achaie
(Which is the last place the Canadian Pacific Railway made
And which may not be properly spelled)
Without coming upon you
Picnicking in a spinny,
And prepared to greet all and sundry
With that time-honoured remark,
"There's 'air,"
Or some other
Equally objectionable ribaldry.
Well, my dear Tripper,
Time is short,
And poets fill their columns easily,
So that I must not abuse you any more.
You are part of the Cosmos,
And as such I am bound to respect you;
But, by Day and Night,
I wish
That James Watt
Had taken no notice
Of his boiling kettle!

TO THE GLASGOW MAGISTRATES

(On their Proposal to Banish Barmaids)

May it please your Worships,
For years past, Glasgow has stood in the forefront
As a city given over to the small-pox
And magisterial reform.
It is, I believe,
An exceedingly well-managed city:
In fact, it appears to be managed
Out of all reasonable existence;
Hence, no doubt, it comes to pass
That it was lately