"One touch of nature" kins To-day

With classical Arcadia.

This faun-like "nipper,"

Tree-perched, is tootling, tootling on,

Though Pan be dead, Arcadia gone,

And wild "Kazoos" are played upon

By the cheap tripper.

Half imp, half animal, behold

The 'Arry of the Age of Gold

In this young satyr!

Lover of pleasure and of "lush"

(Silenus at the slang might blush),

Of haunted Nature's holy hush

Irreverent hater.

Mischief and music, mockery,

Swift eyes oblique in goblin glee,

And nimble finger;

Sardonic lips that slide with speed

Athwart the rangéd pastoral reed;

Upon these things will fancy feed,

And memory linger.

Imp-urchin of the budding horn,

Native to Nature's nascent morn,

The same quaint pranks

You played 'midst the Arcadian shade,

By satyrs of to-day are played;

Their nether limbs in "tweeds" arrayed

Not shaggy shanks.

Not cheap tan kids and Kino's best

Can hide the frolic faun confest,

Or coarse Silenus;

Like Spenser's satyrs, they attack us,

With rompings rouse, with noises rack us,

Brutes in the train of beery Bacchus,

And vulgar Venus.

'Arry's mouth-organ is, indeed,

Far shriekier than your shrilling reed,

Pan-fathered piper;

While his tin-whistle!—a wood-god,

Whose tympanum that sound should prod,

Would start, and shriek, as though he trod

Upon a viper.

Ah, yes, my little satyr-friend,

Better Arcadia than Southend

On a Bank-Holiday!

You and your Pan-pipe might appear,

And tootle, yet not rend my ear.

Or with a novel Panic fear

Upset a jolly day.

Aperch upon your branch, you carry

A certain likeness to our 'Arry,

Yet 'tis but slight.

He could not sit, the noisy brute!

And natural music mildly flute,

Till the assembled nymphs were mute

With sheer delight.

He'd want the banjo and the bones,

And rowdy words, and raucous tones,

And roaring chorus.

Urchin, I've done you grievous wrong!

No echoes of Arcadian song

Sound in the screech the holiday throng

Rattle and roar us.

To your shrill flutings I could listen

When on the grass-blades dewdrops glisten,

And morn is ripe.

Could sit and hear your pastoral reed,

In peace, and do myself, indeed

(Fair laden with "the fragrant weed"),

"A Quiet Pipe!"

Oh! where, and oh! where is your Highland "Caddie" gone?

He's gone to join the Strike, and now "Caddie" I have none;

And it's oh! in my heart that I wish the Strike were done!

Oh! what, and oh! what does your Highland "Caddie" claim?

He wants sixpence for a round of nine holes. It is a shame,

And it's oh! in my heart that I fear 'twill spoil the game.

And what, tell me what, are your Highland Caddie's tricks?

He has "picketed the links" just to keep out all "knobsticks,"

And it's oh! in my heart, that I feel I'm in a fix!

Suppose, oh! suppose that all Highland Caddies strike!

I might have to turn up golf, and to tennis take, or "bike,"

But it's oh! in my heart that I do not think 'tis like!