Kitabı oku: «More Misrepresentative Men», sayfa 2

 
I'll gar ye tocher hame fra' work,
Sae straught an' primsie;
In vain the lavrock leaves the snaw,
The sonsie cowslips blithely blaw,
The elbucks wheep adoon the shaw,
Or warl a whimsy.
The cootie muircocks crousely craw,
The maukins tak' their fud fu' braw,
I gie their wames a random paw,
For a' they're skilpy;
For wha' sae glaikit, gleg an' din,
To but the ben, or loup the linn,
Or scraw aboon the tirlin'-pin
Sae frae an' gilpie?
 
 
Och, snood the sporran roun' ma lap,
The cairngorm clap in ilka cap,
Och, hand me o'er
Ma lang claymore,
Twa, bannocks an' a bap,
Wha hoo!
Twa bannocks an' a bap!
 

…

 
O fellow Scotsman, near and far,
Renowned for health and good digestion,
For all that makes you what you are, —
(But are you really? That's the question) —
Be grateful, while the world endures,
That Burns was countryman of yours.
 
 
And hand-in-hand, in alien land,
Foregather with your fellow cronies,
To masticate the haggis (cann'd)
At Scottish Conversaziones,
Where, flushed with wine and Auld Lang Syne,
You worship at your country's shrine!
 

William Waldorf Astor

 
HOW blest a thing it is to die
For Country's sake, as bards have sung!
How sweet "pro patria mori,"
(To quote the vulgar Latin tongue);
And yet to him the palm we give
Who for his fatherland can live.
 
 
Historians have explained to us,
In terms that never can grow cold,
How well the bold Horatius
Played bridge in the brave days of old;
And we can read of hosts of others,
From Spartan boys to Roman mothers.
 
 
But nowhere has the student got,
From poet, pedagogue, or pastor,
The picture of a patriot
So truly typical as Astor;
And none has ever shown a greater
Affection for his Alma Mater.
 
 
With loyalty to Fatherland
His heart inflexible as starch is,
Whene'er he hears upon a band
The too prolific Sousa's marches;
And from his eyes a tear he wipes,
Each time he sees the Stars and Stripes.
 
 
Tho' others roam across the foam
To European health resorts,
The fact that "there's no place like home"
Is foremost in our hero's thoughts;
And all in vain have people tried
To lure him from his "ain fireside."
 
 
Let tourists travel near or far,
By wayward breezes widely blown,
He stops at the Astoria,
"A poor thing" (Shakespeare), "but his own;"
And nothing that his friends may do
Can drag him from Fifth Avenue.
 
 
The Western heiress is content
To scale, as a prospective bride,
The bare six-story tenement
Where foreign pauper peers reside;
But men like Astor all disparage
The so-called Morgan-attic marriage.
 
 
The rich Chicago millionaire
May buy a mansion in Belgravia,
Have footmen there with powdered hair
And frigidly correct behaviour;
But marble stairs and plate of gold
Leave Astor absolutely cold.
 
 
The lofty ducal residence,
That fronts some Surrey riverside,
Would wound his socialistic sense,
And pain his patriotic pride;
He would not change for Castles Highland
His cabbage-patch on Coney Island.
 
 
A statue in some Roman street,
A palace of Venetian gilding,
Appear to him not half so sweet
As any modern Vanderbuilding;
He views, without an envious throe,
The wolf that suckled Romeo!
 
 
Roast beef, or frogs, or sauerkraut,
Their mead of praise from some may win;
Our hero cannot do without
Peanuts and clams and terrapin;
Away from home, his soul would lack
The cocktail and the canvasback.
 
 
Not his to walk the crowded Strand;
'Mid busy London's jar and hum.
On quiet Broadway he would stand,
Saying "Americanus sum!"
His smile so tranquil, so seraphic, —
Small wonder that it stops the traffic!
 
 
Who would not be a man like he,
(This lapse of grammar pray forgive,)
So simply satisfied to be,
Contented with his lot to live, —
Whether or not it be, I wot,
A little lot, – or quite a lot?
 
 
Content with any kind of fare,
With any tiny piece of earth,
So long as he can find it there
Within the land that gave him birth;
Content with simple beans and pork,
If he may eat them in New York!
 
 
O persons who have made your pile,
And spend it far across the seas,
Like landlords of the Em'rald Isle,
Denounced notorious absentees,
I pray you imitate the Master,
And stay at home like Mr. Astor!
 
 
But if you go abroad at all,
And leave your fatherland behind you,
Without an effort to recall
The sentimental ties that bind you,
I should be grateful if you could
Contrive to stay away for good!
 

Henry VIII

 
WITH Stevenson we must agree,
Who found the world so full of things,
That all should be, or so said he,
As happy as a host of Kings;
Yet few so fortunate as not
To envy Bluff King Henry's lot.
 
 
A polished monarch, through and through,
Tho' somewhat lacking in religion,
Who joined a courtly manner to
The figure of a pouter pigeon;
And was, at time of feast or revel
A … well … a perfect little devil!
 
 
But tho' his vices, I'm afraid,
Are hard for modern minds to swallow,
Two lofty virtues he displayed,
Which we should do our best to follow: —
A passion for domestic life,
A cult for what is called The Wife.
 
 
He sought his spouses, North and South.
Six times (to make a misquotation)
He managed, at the Canon's mouth,
To win a bubble reputation;
And ev'ry time, from last to first,
His matrimonial bubble burst!
 
 
Six times, with wide, self-conscious smile
And well-blacked, button boots, he entered
The Abbey's bust-congested aisle,
With ev'ry eye upon him centred;
Six times he heard, and not alone,
The march of Mr. Mendelssohn.
 
 
Six sep'rate times (or three times twice),
In order to complete the marriage,
'Mid painful show'rs of boots and rice,
He sought the shelter of his carriage;
Six times the bride, beneath her veil,
Looked "beautiful, but somewhat pale."
 
 
Within the limits of one reign,
Six females of undaunted bearing,
Two Annes, three Kath'rines, and a Jane,
Enjoyed the privilege of sharing
A conjugal career so chequer'd
It almost constitutes a record!
 
 
Yet sometimes it occurs to me
That Henry missed his true vocation;
A husband by profession he,
A widower by occupation;
And, honestly, it seems a pity
He didn't live in Salt Lake City.
 
 
For there he could have put in force
His plural marriage views, unbaffled;
Nor had recourse to dull divorce,
Nor sought the service of the scaffold;
Nor looked for peace, nor found release,
In any partner's predecease.
 
 
Had Henry been alive to-day,
He might have hired a timely motor,
And sent each wife in turn to stay
Within the confines of Dakota;
That State whose rigid marriage-law,
Is eulogised by Bernard Shaw.
 
 
But Henry's simple days are done,
And, in the present generation,
A wife is seldom woo'd and won
By prospects of decapitation.
For nowadays when Woman weds,
It is the Men who lose their heads!