Kitabı oku: «Verse and Worse», sayfa 4

III
'DON'T BUY A PIG IN A POKE'

 
Unscrupulous Pigmongers will
Attempt to wheedle and to coax
The ignorant young housewife till
She purchases her pigs in pokes;
Beasts that have got a Lurid Past,
Or else are far Too Good to Last.
 
 
So, should you not desire to be
The victim of a cruel hoax,
Then promise me, ah! promise me,
You will not purchase pigs in pokes!
('Twould be an error just as big
To poke your purchase in a pig.)
 
 
Too well I know the bitter cost,
To turn this subject off with jokes;
How many fortunes have been lost
By men who purchased pigs in pokes.
(Ah! think on such when you would talk
With mouths that are replete with pork!)
 
 
And, after dinner, round the fire,
Astride of Grandpa's rugged knee,
Implore your bored but patient sire
To tell you what a Poke may be.
The fact he might disclose to you —
Which is far more than I can do.
 

…

 
The Moral of The Pigs and Pokes
Is not to make your choice too quick.
In purchasing a Book of Jokes,
Pray poke around and take your pick.
Who knows how rich a mental meal
The covers of this book conceal?
 

IV
'LEARN TO TAKE THINGS EASILY'

 
To these few words, it seems to me,
A wealth of sound instruction clings;
O Learn to Take things easily —
Espeshly Other People's Things;
And Time will make your fingers deft
At what is known as Petty Theft.
 
 
'Fools and Their Money soon must part!'
And you can help this on, may be,
If, in the kindness of your Heart,
You Learn to Take things easily;
And be, with little education,
A Prince of Misappropriation.
 

V
'A ROLLING STONE GATHERS NO MOSS'

 
I never understood, I own,
What anybody (with a soul)
Could mean by offering a Stone
This needless warning not to Roll;
And what inducement there can be
To gather Moss, I fail to see.
 
 
I'd sooner gather anything,
Like primroses, or news perhaps,
Or even wool (when suffering
A momentary mental lapse);
But could forgo my share of moss,
Nor ever realise the loss.
 
 
'Tis a botanical disease,
And worthy of remark as such;
Lending a dignity to trees,
To ruins a romantic touch;
A timely adjunct, I've no doubt,
But not worth writing home about.
 
 
Of all the Stones I ever met,
In calm repose upon the ground,
I really never found one yet
With a desire to roll around;
Theirs is a stationary rôle.
(A joke, – and feeble on the whole.)
 
 
But, if I were a stone, I swear
I'd sooner move and view the World,
Than sit and grow the greenest hair
That ever Nature combed and curled.
I see no single saving grace
In being known as 'Mossyface'!
 
 
Instead, I might prove useful for
A weapon in the hand of Crime,
A paperweight, a milestone, or
A missile at Election-time;
In each capacity I could
Do quite incalculable good.
 
 
When well directed from the Pit,
I might promote a welcome death,
If fortunate enough to hit
Some budding Hamlet or Macbeth,
Who twice each day the playhouse fills, —
(For Further Notice see Small Bills).
 
 
At concerts, too, if you prefer,
I could prevent your growing deaf
By silencing the amateur
Before she reached that upper F;
Or else, in lieu of half-a-brick,
Restrain some local Kubelik.
 
 
Then, human stones, take my advice,
(As you should always do, indeed);
This proverb may be very nice,
But don't you pay it any heed,
And, tho' you make the critics cross,
Roll on, and never mind the moss!
 

VI
'IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND'

 
Since it can never be too late
To change your life, or else renew it,
Let the unpleasant process wait,
Until you are compelled to do it.
The State provides (and gratis too)
Establishments for such as you.
 
 
Remember this, and pluck up heart,
That, be you publican or parson,
Your ev'ry art must have a start,
From petty larceny to arson;
And even in the burglar's trade,
The cracksman is not born, but made.
 
 
So, if in your career of crime,
You fail to carry out some 'coup,'
Then try again a second time,
And yet again, until you do;
And don't despair, or fear the worst,
Because you get found out at first.
 
 
Perhaps the battle will not go,
On all occasions, to the strongest;
You may be fairly certain tho'
That He Laughs Last who Laughs the Longest.
So keep a good reserve of laughter,
Which may be found of use hereafter.
 
 
Believe me that, howe'er well meant,
A good resolve is always brief;
Don't let your precious hours be spent
In turning over a new leaf.
Such leaves, like Nature's, soon decay,
And then are only in the way.
 
 
The Road to – well, a certain spot
(A road of very fair dimensions),
Has, so the proverb tells us, got
A parquet-floor of Good Intentions.
Take care, in your desire to please,
You do not add a brick to these.
 
 
For there may come a moment when
You shall be mended, willy-nilly,
With many more misguided men,
Whose skill is undermined with skilly.
Till then procrastinate, my friend;
'It Never is Too Late to Mend!'
 

VII
'A BAD WORKMAN COMPLAINS OF HIS TOOLS'

 
This pen of mine is simply grand,
I never loved a pen so much;
This paper (underneath my hand)
Is really a delight to touch;
And never in my life, I think,
Did I make use of finer ink.
 
 
The subject upon which I write
Is ev'rything that I could choose;
I seldom knew my wits more bright,
More cosmopolitan my views;
Nor ever did my head contain
So surplus a supply of brain!
 

VIII
'DON'T LOOK A GIFT-HORSE IN THE MOUTH'

 
I knew a man who lived down South;
He thought this maxim to defy;
He looked a Gift-horse in the Mouth;
The Gift-horse bit him in the Eye!
And, while the steed enjoyed his bite,
My Southern friend mislaid his sight.
 
 
Now, had this foolish man, that day,
Observed the Gift-horse in the Heel,
It might have kicked his brains away,
But that's a loss he would not feel;
Because, you see (need I explain?),
My Southern friend has got no brain.
 
 
When any one to you presents
A poodle, or a pocket-knife,
A set of Ping-pong instruments,
A banjo or a lady-wife,
'Tis churlish, as I understand,
To grumble that they're second-hand.
 
 
And he who termed Ingratitude
As 'worser nor a servant's tooth'
Was evidently well imbued
With all the elements of Truth;
(While he who said 'Uneasy lies
The tooth that wears a crown' was wise).
 
 
'One must be poor,' George Eliot said,
'To know the luxury of giving';
So too one really should be dead
To realise the joy of living.
(I'd sooner be – I don't know which —
I'd like to be alive and rich!)
 
 
This book may be a Gift-horse too,
And one you surely ought to prize;
If so, I beg you, read it through,
With kindly and uncaptious eyes,
Not grumbling because this particular line doesn't happen to scan,
And this one doesn't rhyme!
 

IX
POTPOURRI

 
There are many more Maxims to which
I would like to accord a front place,
But alas! I have got
To omit a whole lot,
For the lack of available space;
And the rest I am forced to boil down and condense
To the following Essence of Sound without Sense:
 
 
Now the Pitcher that journeys too oft
To the Well will get broken at last.
But you'll find it a fact
That, by using some tact,
Such a danger as this can be past.
(There's an obvious way, and a simple, you'll own,
Which is, if you're a Pitcher, to Let Well alone.)
 
 
Half a loafer is never well-bred,
And Self-Praise is a Dangerous Thing.
And the mice are at play
When the Cat is away,
For a moment, inspecting a King.
(Tho' if Care kills a Cat, as the Proverbs declare,
It is right to suppose that the King will take care.)
 
 
Don't Halloo till you're out of the Wood,
When a Stitch in Good Time will save Nine,
While a Bird in the Hand
Is worth Two, understand,
In the Bush that Needs no Good Wine.
(Tho' the two, if they Can sing but Won't, have been known,
By an accurate aim to be killed with one Stone.)
 
 
Never Harness the Cart to the Horse;
Since the latter should be à la carte.
Also, Birds of a Feather
Come Flocking Together,
– Because they can't well Flock Apart.
(You may cast any Bread on the Waters, I think,
But, unless I'm mistaken, you can't make it Sink.)
 
 
It is only the Fool who remarks
That there Can't be a Fire without Smoke;
Has he never yet learned
How the gas can be turned
On the best incombustible coke?
(Would you value a man by the checks on his suits,
And forget 'que c'est le premier passbook qui Coutts?')
 
 
Now 'De Mortuis Nil Nisi Bonum,'
Is Latin, as ev'ry one owns;
If your domicile be
Near a Mortuaree,
You should always avoid throwing bones.
(I would further remark, if I could, – but I couldn't —
That People Residing in Glasshouses shouldn't.)
 
 
You have heard of the Punctual Bird,
Who was First in presenting his Bill;
But I pray you'll be firm,
And remember the Worm
Had to get up much earlier still;
(So that, if you can't rise in the morning, then Don't;
And be certain that Where there's a Will there's a Won't.)
 
 
You can give a bad name to a Dog,
And hang him by way of excuse;
Whereas Hunger, of course;
Is by far the Best Sauce
For the Gander as well as the Goose.
(But you shouldn't judge any one just by his looks,
For a Surfeit of Broth ruins too many Cooks.)
 
 
With the fact that Necessity knows
Nine Points of the Law, you'll agree.
There are just as Good Fish
To be found on a Dish
As you ever could catch in the Sea.
(You should Look ere you Leap on a Weasel Asleep,
And I've also remarked that Still Daughters Run Cheap.)
 
 
The much trodden-on Lane will Turn,
And a Friend is in Need of a Friend;
But the Wisest of Saws,
Like the Camel's Last Straws,
Or the Longest of Worms, have an end.
So, before out of Patience a Virtue you make,
A decisive farewell of these maxims we'll take.
 

PART IV
OTHER VERSES

BILL

(Told by the Hospital Orderly)

 
At Modder, where I met 'im fust,
I thought as 'ow ole Bill was dead;
A splinter, from a shell wot bust,
'Ad fetched 'im somewheres in the 'ead;
But there! It takes a deal to kill
Them thick-thatched sort o' blokes like Bill.
 
 
In the field-'orspital, nex' day,
The doctors was a-makin' out
The 'casualty returns,' an' they
Comes up an' pulls ole Bill about;
Ole Colonel Wilks, 'e turns to me,
'Report this "dangerous,"' sez 'e.
 
 
But Bill, 'oo must 'ave 'eard it too,
'E calls the doctor, quick as thought:
'I'd take it kindly, sir, if you
'Could keep me out o' the report.
'For tho' I'm 'it, an' 'it severe,
'I doesn't want my friends to 'ear.
 
 
'I've a ole mother, 'way in Kent,
''Oo thinks the very world o' me;
'I'd thank you if I wasn't sent
'As "wounded dangerous,"' sez 'e;
'For if she 'ears I'm badly hit,
'I lay she won't get over it.
 
 
'At Landman's Drift she lost a lad
'(With the 18th 'Ussars 'e fell),
'Poor soul, she'd take it mighty bad
'To think o' losin' me as well;
'So please, sir, if it's hall the same,
'I'd ask you not to send my name.'
 
 
The Colonel bloke 'e thinks a bit,
'Oh, well,' sez 'e, 'per'aps you're right.
'And, now I come to look at it,
'I'll send you in as "scalp-wound, slight."
'O' course it's wrong of me, but still – '
'Gawd bless you, sir, an' thanks!' sez Bill.
 

…

 
'E didn't die; 'e scrambled through.
They hoperated on 'is 'ead,
An' Gawd knows wot they didn't do, —
'Tripoded' 'im, I think they said.
I see'd 'im, Toosday, in Pall Mall,
Nor never knowed 'im look so well.
 
 
Yes, Bill 'e's going strong just now,
In London, an' employed again;
Tho' it's a fact, 'e sez, as 'ow
The doctors took out 'alf 'is brain!
Ho well, 'e won't 'ave need o' this —
'E's working at the War Office.
 

THE LEGEND OF THE AUTHOR

(A long way after Ingoldsby)

 
When Anthony Adamson first went to school
The reception he got was decidedly cool;
And, because he was utterly hopeless at games,
He was given all sorts of opprobrious names,
Which ranged the whole gamut from 'fat-head' to 'fool';
For boys as a rule, Are what nurses call 'crool,'
'Tis their natural instinct, which nobody blames,
Any more than the habits Peculiar to rabbits,
To label a duffer 'old woman' or 'muff,' or
Some name calculated to cause him to suffer.
They failed in their treatment this time, on the whole,
Since our Anthony thoroughly pitied the rôle
Of the oaf who is muddied, (For Kipling he'd studied),
However strong-hearted, broad-limbed, and warm-blooded,
Who sits in a goal, Quite deficient of soul,
And as blind to the beauties of Life as a mole.
He was rather a curious boy, was this youth,
And a bit of a prig, if you must know the truth,
And his comrades considered him weird and uncouth,
For he didn't much mind When they left him behind,
And, intent upon cricket, Went off to the wicket;
Some other less heating employment he'd find,
And, while his young playfellows fielded and batted,
This curious fat-head, Ink-fingered, hair-matted,
Would take a new pen from his pocket, and lick it,
Then into the ink-bottle thoughtfully stick it,
And, chewing the holder ('Twas fashioned of gold,
Or at least so 'twas sold By a stationer bold,
And at any rate furnished a good imitation),
In deep rumination, With much mastication,
And wonderful patience, Await inspirations;
And brilliant ideas would arrive on occasions;
When frequently followed, The pen being swallowed,
As up to his eyes in the inkpot he wallowed.
 
 
So all the day long and for half of the night
Would young Anthony Adamson nibble and write,
With extravagant feelings of joy and delight,
And it may sound absurd, But 'twas thus, as I've heard,
That he learnt to acquire the appropriate word;
And altho' composition, Which was his ambition,
At first proved a trifle untamed and refractory;
Arrived in a while At evolving a style
Which a Stevenson even might deem satisfactory.
 
 
Now when Anthony A. was as yet in his 'teens
He began to take aim at the big magazines,
With articles, verses, and little love-scenes;
And short stories he wrote, Which he sent with a note
(Which I haven't the space nor the leisure to quote),
Containing a humble request, and a hope,
And some stamps and a clearly addressed envelope.
 
 
Now a few of these got to the Editor's desk,
And he found them well-written and quite picturesque,
And he sighed to see talent like this go to waste
On what couldn't appeal to the popular taste.
For the Public, you see (With a capital P),
Doesn't care what it reads, just so long as it be
Something really exciting, however bad writing,
With wonderful heroes, And villains like Neroes,
Who, running as serials, Wearing imperials,
Revel in bloodshed and bombast and fighting.
 
 
So back to the Author his manuscript went;
Altho' sometimes a friendly old Editor sent
An encouraging letter, To say he'd do better
To lower his style to the popular level;
When Anthony proudly (Of course not out loudly,
But mentally) told him to go to the devil!
 
 
But a few of his articles never came back,
And their whereabouts no one was able to track,
For some persons who edited, (Can it be credited?)
Finding it paid them, Unduly mislaid them
(Behaviour most rare Nowadays anywhere,
And to ev'ry tradition entirely opposed),
And grew fat on the numerous stamps he enclosed.
Tho' to this I am really unable to swear,
Or at any rate haven't the courage to dare.
 
 
Now when Anthony Adamson grew rather older,
And wiser, and bolder, And broader of shoulder,
He thought he'd a fancy to write for the Press, —
'Tis a common idea with the young, more or less; —
And he saw himself doing Critiques and reviewing
The latest new books as they came from the printers;
To set them on thrones or to smash them to splinters,
To damn with faint praise, Or with eulogies raise,
As he banned or he blest, Just whatever seemed best
To the wit and the wisdom of twenty-three winters.
But when he had carefully read thro' the papers,
Arranged to the taste of our nation of drapers,
And wisely as Solomon Studied each column, an
Awful attack of despair and depression
Assailed him, and then, As he threw down his pen,
He was forced to confess To no hope of success,
If he entered the great journalistic profession.
 
 
For the only description of 'copy' that pays,
In the journals that ev'ry one reads nowadays,
Is the personal matter, Impertinent chatter,
The tales of the tailor, the barber, the hatter;
Society small talk, And mere servants'-hall talk,
The sort of what's-nobody's-business-at-all-talk;
And those who can handle The latest big scandal
With the taste of a Thug and the tact of a Vandal,
Whatever society paper they write in,
Can always provide what their readers delight in.
An article, vulgarly written, which deals
With the food that celebrities eat at their meals
To the popular intellect always appeals.
People laugh themselves hoarse At the latest divorce,
While a peer's breach of promise is comic, of course;
How eager each face is, As ev'ry one races
To read the details of the Cruelty cases!
And a magistrate's pun Is considered good fun,
And arouses the bench of reporters from torpor,
When it's at the expense of some broken-down pauper!
 
 
So Anthony pondered the different ways
Of attaining and gaining the popular praise;
And selected a score of his brightest essays,
Just enough for a book, Which he hopefully took
To some publishers, thinking perhaps they would look
At what might (as he couldn't help modestly hinting)
Repay the expense and the trouble of printing.
Now the publishers all were extremely polite,
And encouraging quite, For they saw he could write;
But the answer they gave him was always the same.
'You are not,' so they said, 'in the least bit to blame,
And your style is so good, Be it well understood,
We'd be happy to publish your work if we could;
But alas! All the people who know are agreed
This is not what the Public demands, or would read.
'It is over the head Of the people,' they said.
'If you'd only write down to the popular level!'
(Once more, he replied, they could go to the devil!)
The result to our author was not unexpected,