Rhymes of the East and Re-collected Verses Part 7

So pa.s.sed that stout but choleric knight away; And we, by certain wandering instincts led, Made for a small pavilion, where we found Viands and what not, and the thirsty flower Of mountain knighthood gathered at the board.

And entering, here we lingered, and discussed The what not, and the viands, and in time Drew to the tourney, giving each his views;-- But mostly wondering what the coolies thought To see these ladies of the Ruling Race, 'Yoked in all _exercise_ of n.o.ble end,'

And Public Exhibition. Was it wise?

Some questioned; others, was it quite the thing?

And here indeed we left it, for the shades Deepened, the high, swift-narrowing crest of day Brake from the hills, and down the path we went, Well pleased, for it was guest-night at the Club.

'FAREWELL'

'Farewell. What a subject! How sweet It looks to the careless observer!

So simple; so easy to treat With tenderness, mark you, and fervour.

_Farewell_. It's a poem; the song Of nightingales crying and calling!'

O Reader, you're utterly wrong.

It's not. It's appalling!

And yet when she asked me to send Some trifle of verse to remind her Of days that had come to an end, And one she was leaving behind her, It looked, as we stood on the sh.o.r.e, A theme so entirely delightsome That I, like a lunatic, swore (Quite calmly) to write some.

I've toiled with unwavering pluck; I've struggled if ever a man did; Infringed every postulate, stuck At nothing,--nay, once, to be candid, I s.h.i.+fted the cadence--designed A fresh but unauthorised _fare_-well; 'Twas plausible, too, but I find The thing doesn't wear well.

I know that it shouldn't be hard; That dozens, who claim to be poets, Could scribble off stuff by the yard And fare very well; and I know it's A theme that the Masters of Rhyme Have written some excellent verse on, Which proves, as I take it, that I'm Not that sort of person.

But that we can leave. It remains To state that my present appearance Is something too awful, my brains Are tending to wild incoherence; My mental condition's absurd; My thoughts are at sixes and sevens, Inextrica--lord! what a word!

Inextri--good heavens!

My dear, you can do what you like,-- Forgive, or despise, or abuse me-- But frankly, I'm going on strike, And really you'll have to excuse me.

Indeed it's my only resource, For, sure as I stuck to my promise, I'd Be booked in a week for a course Of sui-_c.u.m_-homicide.

A HAPPY NEW YEAR

11.30 P.M., DEC. 31

Friend, when the year is on the wing, 'Tis held a fair and comely thing To turn reflective glances Over the days' forbidden Scroll, See if we're better on the whole, And average our chances.

Yet 'tis an awful thing to drag Each separate deed from out the bag That up till now has hidden 't, And bring before the shuddering view All that we swore we wouldn't do, Or should have done, but didn't.

The broken code, the baffled laws Our little private faults and flaws, And every naughty habit, Come whistling through the Waste of Life, Until one longs to take a knife, Feel for his heart, and stab it.

Unchanged, exultant, one and all Rise up spontaneous to the call, And bring their stings behind them; But when the search is duly plied For items on the credit side, One has a job to find them!

I know not _why_ they change. I know-- None better--how one's feelings grow Distinctly kin to mutiny, To see one's a.s.sets limping in, All too preposterously thin To stand a moment's scrutiny.

I know that shock must follow shock, Until the sole remaining Rock That all one's hopes exist on, Crumbles beneath the crus.h.i.+ng force Of Conscience, kicking like a horse, And pounding like a piston.

Hardly a little year has past Since you, I take it, swore to cast Aside the bonds that girt you, And thought to stun the dazzled earth, A pillared Miracle of Worth, Raised on a plinth of Virtue.

One always does. One wonders why.

One knows that, as the years go by, One finds the same old blunders, The same old acts, the same old words; And as one trots them out in herds, Or one by one, one wonders;

Another year,--a touch of grey,-- A little stiffness,--day by day We feel the need of, shall we say, Goggles to face the sun with,-- A little loss of youthful bloom,-- A little nearer to the Tomb!

(Pardon this momentary gloom) Bang go the bells. _That's_ done with!

SAIREY

EXCERPTS FROM AN INCONGRUITY

_After A. C. S._

In Spring there are las.h.i.+ngs of new books, In Autumn fresh novels are sold, They are many, but my shelf has few books, My comrades, the favourites of old; Tho' the roll of the cata-logues vary, Thou alone art unchangeably dear, O bibulous, beautiful Sairey, Our Lady of Cheer.

By the whites of thine eyes that were yellow, By the folds of thy duplicate chin, By thy voice that was husky but mellow With gin, with the richness of gin, By thy scorn of the boy that was Bragian, By thy wealth of perambulate swoons, O matchless and mystical Magian, Beguile us with boons.

For thou scatterest the evil before us With grave humours and exquisite speech, Till we heed not the 'new men that _bore_ us,'

Nor regard the new women that screech; We are weak, but thy hand shall refresh us; We are faint, but we know thee sublime; More priceless than pills, and more precious Than draughts that are slime.

Thou hast lifted us forth from the _melly_, Thou hast told, with thick heavings of pride, Of the Package in Jonadge's belly, And the Camel that rich folks may ride; From the mire and the murk of a stern Age In the Font of St. Polge we are clean, O Gold as has pa.s.sed through the Furnage, Our Lady and Queen.

In thy chamber where Holborn is highest, At the banquet, ere night had begun, Thou wert seated with her that was nighest Thy heart, save the Only, the One; For the hours of thy labour were ended, And the spirit of peace was within, And the fumes from the teapot ascended Of unsweetened gin.

Dost thou dream in dim dusk when light lingers, Of Betsy, the bage, the despiged, Who with snap of imperious fingers Haricina, thy figment, deniged?

Dost thou gasp at the shock of the blow sich As she, in her tantrum, let fall, Who 'didn't believe there was no sich A person' at all?

Fear not! Though the torters be frightful, Though the words that thou took'st unawares Be as serpiants that twine and are spiteful, O thou best of good creeturs, who cares?

For the curse hath recoiled, and the stigma Thou hast turned to her sorrer and shame, While thy cryptic and sombre Enigma Is shrined in a Name.

And our wine shall not lack for thy throttle, Nor at night shall our portals be cloged, And thy lips thou shalt place to the bottle On our chimley, when so thou'rt dispoged; We have pickled 'intensely' our salmon; To thy moods are great cowc.u.mbers dressed, O Daughter of Gumption and Gammon, Our Mistress and Guest!

And in hours when our lamp-ile has dwindled In deep walleys of uttermost pain, When our hopes to grey ashes are kindled, We are fain of thee still, we are fain; In this Piljian's Projiss of Woe, in This Wale of white shadders and damp, O Roge all a-blowin' and growin', We open our Gamp!