Part 8

THE learned are all ‘in a swither,’ (They don’t very often agree,) They know not her ‘whence’ nor her ‘whither,’ The Maiden we drink to together, The College’s Kate Kennedie!

Did she shine in days early or later? Did she ever achieve a degree? Was she pretty or plain? Did she mate, or Live lonely? And who was the pater Of mystical Kate Kennedie?

The learned may scorn her and scout her, But true to her colours are we, The learned may mock her and flout her, But surely we’ll rally about her, In the College that stands by the Sea!

So here’s to her memory! here to The mystical Maiden drink we, We pledge her, and we’ll persevere too, Though the reason is not very clear to The critical mind, nor to me. Here’s to Kate! she’s our own, and she’s dear to The College that stands by the Sea.

DEATH IN JUNE

FOR CRICKETERS ONLY

June is the month of Suicides

WHY do we slay ourselves in June, When life, if ever, seems so sweet? When “Moon,” and “tune,” and “afternoon,” And other happy rhymes we meet, When strawberries are coming soon? Why do we do it?’ you repeat!

Ah, careless butterfly, to thee The strawberry seems passing good; And sweet, on Music’s wings, to flee Amid the waltzing multitude, And revel late—perchance till three— For Love is monarch of thy mood!

Alas! to us no solace shows For sorrows we endure—at Lord’s, When Oxford’s bowling always goes For ‘fours,’ for ever to the cords— Or more, perhaps, with ‘overthrows’;— These things can pierce the heart like swords!

And thus it is though woods are green, Though mayflies down the Test are rolling, Though sweet, the silver showers between, The finches sing in strains consoling, We cut our throats for very spleen, And very shame of Oxford’s bowling!

TO CORRESPONDENTS

MY Postman, though I fear thy tread, And tremble as thy foot draws nearer, ’Tis not the Christmas Dun I dread, My mortal foe is much severer,— The Unknown Correspondent, who, With undefatigable pen, And nothing in the world to do, Perplexes literary men.

From Pentecost and Ponder’s End They write: from Deal, and from Dacotah, The people of the Shetlands send No inconsiderable quota; They write for autographs; in vain, In vain does Phyllis write, and Flora, They write that Allan Quatermain Is not at all the book for Brora.

They write to say that they have met This writer ‘at a garden party, And though’ this writer ‘may forget,’ Their recollection’s keen and hearty. ‘And will you praise in your reviews A novel by our distant cousin?’ These letters from Provincial Blues Assail us daily by the dozen!

O friends with time upon your hands, O friends with postage-stamps in plenty, O poets out of many lands, O youths and maidens under twenty, Seek out some other wretch to bore, Or wreak yourselves upon your neighbours, And leave me to my dusty lore And my unprofitable labours!

BALLADE OF DIFFICULT RHYMES

WITH certain rhymes ’tis hard to deal; For ‘silver’ we have ne’er a rhyme. On ‘orange’ (as on orange peel) The bard has slipped full many a time. With ‘babe’ there’s scarce a sound will chime, Though ‘astrolabe’ fits like a glove; But, ye that on Parnassus climb, Why, why are rhymes so rare to Love?

A rhyme to ‘cusp,’ to beg or steal, I’ve sought, from evensong to prime, But vain is my poetic zeal, There’s not one sound is worth a ‘dime’: ‘Bilge,’ ‘coif,’ ‘scarf,’ ‘window’—deeds of crime I’d do to gain the rhymes thereof; Nor shrink from acts of moral grime— Why, why are rhymes so rare to Love?

To ‘dove’ my fancies flit, and wheel Like butterflies on banks of thyme. ‘Above’?—or ‘shove’—alas! I feel, They’re too much used to be sublime. I scorn with angry pantomime, The thought of ‘move’ (pronounced as muv). Ah, in Apollo’s golden clime Why, why are rhymes so rare to Love?

ENVOI

Prince of the lute and lyre, reveal New rhymes, fresh minted, from above, Nor still be deaf to our appeal. Why, why are rhymes so rare to Love?

BALLANT O’ BALLANTRAE

TO ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON

Written in wet weather, this conveyed to the Master of Ballantrae a wrong idea of a very beautiful and charming place, with links, a river celebrated by Burns, good sea-fishing, and, on the river, a ruined castle at every turn of the stream. ‘Try Ballantrae’ is a word of wisdom.

WHAN suthern wunds gar spindrift flee Abune the clachan, faddums hie, Whan for the cluds I canna see The bonny lift, I’d fain indite an Ode to thee Had I the gift!

Ken ye the coast o’ wastland Ayr? Oh mon, it’s unco bleak and bare! Ye daunder here, ye daunder there, And mak’ your moan, They’ve rain and wund eneuch to tear The suthern cone!

Ye’re seekin’ sport! There’s nane ava’, Ye’ll sit and glower ahint the wa’ At bleesin’ breakers till ye staw, If that’s yer wush; ‘There’s aye the Stinchar.’ Hoot awa’, She wunna fush!