Kitabı oku: «Verse and Worse», sayfa 3

XXII
HOMELAND

 
The tour is over! We must part!
Our mutual journey at an end.
O bid farewell, with aching heart,
To guide, philosopher, and friend;
And note, as you remark 'Good-bye!'
The kindly tear that dims his eye.
 
 
The tour is ended! Sad but true!
No more together may we roam!
We turn our lonely footsteps to
The spot that's known as Home, Sweet Home.
Nor time nor temper can afford
A more protracted trip abroad.
 
 
O Home! where we must always be
So hopelessly misunderstood;
Where waits a tactless family,
To tell us things 'for our own good';
Where relatives, with searchlight eyes,
Can penetrate our choicest lies.
 
 
Where all our kith and kin combine
To prove that we are worse than rude,
If we should criticise the wine
Or make complaints about the food.
Thank goodness, then, to quote the pome,
Thank goodness there's 'no place like Home!'
 

PART II
CHILDISH COMPLAINTS
AND
OTHER RUTHLESS RHYMES

CHILDISH COMPLAINTS
PRELUDE

(By Way of Advertisement)

 
I have no knowledge of disease,
No notion what ill-health may be,
Since Housemaid's Throat and Smoker's Knees
Mean something different to me
To what they do to other folk.
(This is, I vow, no vulgar joke.)
 
 
Of course, when young, I had complaints,
And little childish accidents;
For twice I ate a box of paints,
And once I swallowed eighteen pence.
(N.B., I missed the paints a lot,
But got the coins back on the spot.)
 
 
But no practitioner has seen
My tongue since then, down to the present,
And I, alas! have never been
An interesting convalescent.
Ah! why am I alone denied
The Humour of a weak inside?
 
 
Why is it? I will tell you why;
A certain mixture is to blame.
One day for fun I chanced to try
A bottle of – what is the name?
That thing they advertise a lot, —
(Oh, what a memory I've got!)
 
 
It's stuff you must, of course, have seen,
Retailed in bottles, tins, or pots,
In cakes or little pills, I mean —
(Oh goodness me! I've bought such lots,
That I am really much to blame
For not remembering the name!)
 
 
Still, let me recommend a keg
(With maker's name, be sure, above it),
'Tis sweeter than a new-mown egg,
And village idiots simply love it;
Old persons sit and scream for it, —
I do so hope you'll try a bit!
 
 
So efficacious is this stuff,
Its virtue and its strength are such,
One single bottle is enough, —
In fact, at times, 'tis far too much.
(The patient dies in frightful pain,
Or else survives, and tries again.)
 
 
An aunt of mine felt anyhow,
All kind-of-odd, and gone-to-bits,
Had freckles badly too; but now
She doesn't have a thing but fits.
She's just as strong as any horse, —
Tho' still an invalid, of course.
 
 
I had an uncle, too, that way,
His health was in a dreadful plight;
Would often spend a sleepless day,
And lie unconscious half the night.
He took two bottles, large and small,
And now – he has no health at all!
 
 
The Moral plainly bids you buy
This stuff, whose name I have forgotten;
You won't regret it, if you try —
(My memory is simply rotten!)
My funds will profit, in addition,
Since I enjoy a small commission!
 

CHILDISH COMPLAINTS

No. 1 (Appendicitis)

 
I've got Appendicitis
In my Appendicit,
But I don't mind,
Because I find
I'm quite 'cut out' for it.
 

No. 2. (Whooping-cough)

 
If only I had Whooping-cough!
I'd join a Circus troupe!
And folks would clamour at the door,
And pay a shilling – even more,
To see me 'Whoop The Whoop.'
 

No. 3. (Measles)

 
Of illnesses like chickenpox
And measles I've had lots;
I do not like them much, you know,
They are not really nice, altho'
They're rather nice in spots.
 

No. 4. (Adenoids)

 
A Cockney maid produced such snores,
Folks left the City to avoid them;
And all becos,
She said, it was
Her adenoids that 'ad annoyed them!
 

No. 5. (Croup)

 
I had the Croup, in years gone by,
And that is why to-day,
Altho' no longer youthful, I
Am still a Croupier.
 

RUTHLESS RHYMES

I
MOTHER-WIT

 
When wilful little Willie Black
Threw all the tea-things at his mother,
She murmured, as she hurled them back,
'One good Tea-urn deserves another!'
 

II
UNCLE JOE

 
Poor Uncle Joe has gone, you know,
To rest beyond the stars.
I miss him, oh! I miss him so, —
He had such good cigars.
 

III
AUNT ELIZA

 
In the drinking-well
(Which the plumber built her)
Aunt Eliza fell, —
We must buy a filter.
 

IV
ABSENT-MINDEDNESS

 
Absent-minded Edward Brown
Drove his lady into town;
Suddenly the horse fell down!
Mrs. Ned
(Newly wed)
Threw a fit and lay for dead.
 
 
Edward, lacking in resource,
Chafed the fetlocks of his horse,
Sitting with unpleasant force
(Just like lead)
On the head
Of the prostrate Mrs. Ned.
 
 
She demanded a divorce,
Jealous of the favoured horse.
Edward had it shot, of course.
 

…

 
Years have sped;
She and Ned
Drive a motor now instead.
 

V
JOHN

 
John, across the broad Atlantic,
Tried to navigate a barque,
But he met an unromantic
And extremely hungry shark.
 
 
John (I blame his childhood's teachers)
Thought to treat this as a lark,
Ignorant of how these creatures
Do delight to bite a barque.
 
 
Said, 'This animal's a bore!' and,
With a scornful sort of grin,
Handled an adjacent oar and
Chucked it underneath the chin.
 
 
At this unexpected juncture,
Which he had not reckoned on,
Mr. Shark he made a puncture
In the barque – and then in John.
 

…

 
Sad am I, and sore at thinking
John had on some clothes of mine;
I can almost see them shrinking,
Washed repeatedly in brine.
 
 
I shall never cease regretting
That I lent my hat to him,
For I fear a thorough wetting
Cannot well improve the brim.
 
 
Oh! to know a shark is browsing,
Boldly, blandly, on my boots!
Coldly, cruelly carousing
On the choicest of my suits!
 
 
Creatures I regard with loathing,
Who can calmly take their fill
Of one's Jaeger underclothing: —
Down, my aching heart, be still!
 

VI
BABY

 
Baby roused its father's ire,
By a cold and formal lisp;
So he placed it on the fire,
And reduced it to a crisp.
Mother said, 'Oh, stop a bit!
This is overdoing it!'
 

VII
THE CAT

(Advice to the Young)

 
My children, you should imitate
The harmless, necessary cat,
Who eats whatever's on his plate,
And doesn't even leave the fat;
Who never stays in bed too late,
Or does immoral things like that;
Instead of saying, 'Shan't!' or 'Bosh!'
He'll sit and wash, and wash, and wash!
 
 
When shadows fall and lights grow dim,
He sits beneath the kitchen stair;
Regardless as to life and limb,
A shady lair he chooses there;
And if you tumble over him,
He simply loves to hear you swear.
And, while bad language you prefer,
He'll sit and purr, and purr, and purr!
 

PART III
PERVERTED PROVERBS

I
'VIRTUE IS ITS OWN REWARD'

 
Virtue its own reward? Alas!
And what a poor one, as a rule!
Be Virtuous, and Life will pass
Like one long term of Sunday-school.
(No prospect, truly, could one find
More unalluring to the mind.)
 
 
The Model Child has got to keep
His fingers and his garments white;
In church he may not go to sleep,
Nor ask to stop up late at night.
In fact he must not ever do
A single thing he wishes to.
 
 
He may not paddle in his boots,
Like naughty children, at the sea;
The sweetness of Forbidden Fruits
Is not, alas! for such as he.
He watches, with pathetic eyes,
His weaker brethren make mud-pies.
 
 
He must not answer back, oh no!
However rude grown-ups may be;
But keep politely silent, tho'
He brim with scathing repartee;
For nothing is considered worse
Than scoring off Mamma or Nurse.
 
 
He must not eat too much at meals,
Nor scatter crumbs upon the floor;
However vacuous he feels,
He may not pass his plate for more;
– Not tho' his ev'ry organ ache
For further slabs of Christmas cake.
 
 
He is commanded not to waste
The fleeting hours of childhood's days,
By giving way to any taste
For circuses or matinées;
For him the entertainments planned
Are 'Lectures on the Holy Land.'
 
 
He never reads a story-book
By Rider H. or Winston C.,
In vain upon his desk you'd look
For tales by Arthur Conan D.,
Nor could you find upon his shelf
The works of Rudyard – or myself!
 
 
He always fears that he may do
Some action that is infra dig.,
And so he lives his short life through
In the most noxious rôle of Prig.
('Short Life' I say, for it's agreed
The Good die very young indeed.)
 
 
Ah me! how sad it is to think
He could have lived like me – or you!
With practice, and a taste for drink,
Our joys he might have known, he too!
And shared the pleasure we have had
In being gloriously bad!
 
 
The Naughty Boy gets much delight
From doing what he should not do;
But, as such conduct isn't Right,
He sometimes suffers for it, too.
Yet, what's a spanking to the fun
Of leaving vital things Undone?
 
 
The Wicked flourish like the bay,
At Cards or Love they always win,
Good Fortune dogs their steps all day,
They fatten while the Good grow thin.
The Righteous Man has much to bear;
The Bad becomes a Bullionaire!
 
 
For, though he be the greatest sham,
Luck favours him, his whole life through;
At 'Bridge' he always makes a Slam
After declaring 'Sans atout';
With ev'ry deal his fate has planned
A hundred Aces in his hand.
 
 
Yes, it is always just the same;
He somehow manages to win,
By mere good fortune, any game
That he may be competing in.
At Golf no bunker breaks his club,
For him the green provides no 'rub.'
 
 
At Billiards, too, he flukes away
(With quite unnecessary 'side');
No matter what he tries to play,
For him the pockets open wide;
He never finds both balls in baulk,
Or makes miss-cues for want of chalk.
 
 
He swears; he very likely bets;
He even wears a flaming necktie;
Inhales Egyptian cigarettes,
And has a 'Mens Inconscia Recti';
Yet, spite of all, one must confess
That nought succeeds like his excess.
 
 
There's no occasion to be Just,
No need for motives that are fine,
To be Director of a Trust,
Or Manager of a Combine;
Your Corner is a public curse,
Perhaps, but it will fill your purse.
 
 
Then stride across the Public's bones,
Crush all opponents under you,
Until you 'rise on stepping-stones
Of their dead selves'; and, when you do,
The widow's and the orphan's tears
Shall comfort your declining years!
 

…

 
Myself, how lucky I must be,
That need not fear so gross an end;
Since Fortune has not favoured me
With many million pounds to spend.
(Still, did that fickle Dame relent,
I'd show you how they should be spent!)
 
 
I am not saint enough to feel
My shoulder ripen to a wing,
Nor have I wits enough to steal
His title from the Copper King;
And there's a vasty gulf between
The man I Am and Might Have Been;
 
 
But tho' at dinner I may take
Too much of Heidsick (extra dry),
And underneath the table make
My simple couch just where I lie,
My mode of roosting on the floor
Is just a trick and nothing more.
 
 
And when, not Wisely but too Well,
My thirst I have contrived to quench,
The stories I am apt to tell
May be, perhaps, a trifle French; —
(For 'tis in anecdote, no doubt,
That what's Bred in the Beaune comes out.) —
 
 
It does not render me unfit
To give advice, both wise and right,
Because I do not follow it
Myself as closely as I might;
There's nothing that I wouldn't do
To point the proper road to you.
 
 
And this I'm sure of, more or less,
And trust that you will all agree —
The Elements of Happiness
Consist in being – just like Me;
No sinner, nor a saint perhaps,
But – well, the very best of chaps.
 
 
Share the Experience I have had,
Consider all I've known and seen,
And Don't be Good, and Don't be Bad,
But cultivate a Golden Mean.
 

…

 
What makes Existence really nice
Is Virtue – with a dash of Vice.
 

II
'ENOUGH IS AS GOOD AS A FEAST'

 
What is Enough? An idle dream!
One cannot have enough, I swear,
Of Ices or Meringues-and-Cream,
Nougat or Chocolate Éclairs,
Of Oysters or of Caviar,
Of Prawns or Pâté de Foie Grar!
 
 
Who would not willingly forsake
Kindred and Home, without a fuss,
For Icing from a Birthday Cake,
Or juicy fat Asparagus,
And journey over countless seas
For New Potatoes and Green Peas?
 
 
They say that a Contented Mind
Is a Continual Feast; – but where
The mental frame, and how to find,
Which can with Turtle Soup compare?
No mind, however full of Ease,
Could be Continual Toasted Cheese.
 
 
For dinner have a sole to eat
(Some Perrier Jouet, '92),
An Entrée then (and, with the meat,
A bottle of Lafitte will do),
A quail, a glass of port (just one),
Liqueurs and coffee, and you've done.
 
 
Your tastes may be of simpler type; —
A homely pint of 'half-and-half,'
An onion and a dish of tripe,
Or headpiece of the kindly calf.
(Cruel perhaps, but then, you know,
''Faut tout souffrir pour être veau!')
 
 
'Tis a mistake to eat too much
Of any dishes but the best;
And you, of course, should never touch
A thing you know you can't digest;
For instance, lobster: – if you do,
Well, – I'm amayonnaised at you!
 
 
Let this be your heraldic crest:
A bottle (chargé) of Champagne,
A chicken (gorged) with salad (dress'd),
Below, this motto to explain —
'Enough is Very Good, may be;
Too Much is Good Enough for Me!'