Part 10

Oh, listen to the plaintiff’s case: Observe the features of her face— The broken-hearted bride! Condole with her distress of mind— From bias free of every kind, This trial must be tried!

And when amid the plaintiff’s shrieks, The ruffianly defendant speaks— Upon the other side; What he may say you need not mind— From bias free of every kind, This trial must be tried!

THE GREAT OAK TREE

THERE grew a little flower ’Neath a great oak tree: When the tempest ’gan to lower Little heeded she: No need had she to cower, For she dreaded not its power— She was happy in the bower Of her great oak tree! Sing hey, Lackaday! Let the tears fall free For the pretty little flower and the great oak tree!

When she found that he was fickle, Was that great oak tree, She was in a pretty pickle, As she well might be— But his gallantries were mickle, For Death followed with his sickle, And her tears began to trickle For her great oak tree! Sing hey, Lackaday! Let the tears fall free For the pretty little flower and the great oak tree!

Said she, “He loved me never, Did that great oak tree, But I’m neither rich nor clever, And so why should he? But though fate our fortunes sever, To be constant I’ll endeavour, Ay, for ever and for ever, To my great oak tree!” Sing hey, Lackaday! Let the tears fall free For the pretty little flower and the great oak tree!

KING GOODHEART

THERE lived a King, as I’ve been told In the wonder-working days of old, When hearts were twice as good as gold, And twenty times as mellow. Good temper triumphed in his face, And in his heart he found a place For all the erring human race And every wretched fellow. When he had Rhenish wine to drink It made him very sad to think That some, at junket or at jink, Must be content with toddy: He wished all men as rich as he (And he was rich as rich could be), So to the top of every tree Promoted everybody.

Ambassadors cropped up like hay, Prime Ministers and such as they Grew like asparagus in May, And Dukes were three a penny: Lord Chancellors were cheap as sprats, And Bishops in their shovel hats Were plentiful as tabby cats— If possible, too many. On every side Field-Marshals gleamed, Small beer were Lords-Lieutenants deemed, With Admirals the ocean teemed, All round his wide dominions; And Party Leaders you might meet In twos and threes in every street Maintaining, with no little heat, Their various opinions.

That King, although no one denies, His heart was of abnormal size, Yet he’d have acted otherwise If he had been acuter. The end is easily foretold, When every blessed thing you hold Is made of silver, or of gold, You long for simple pewter. When you have nothing else to wear But cloth of gold and satins rare, For cloth of gold you cease to care— Up goes the price of shoddy: In short, whoever you may be, To this conclusion you’ll agree, When every one is somebody, Then no one’s anybody!

SLEEP ON!

FEAR no unlicensed entry, Heed no bombastic talk, While guards the British Sentry Pall Mall and Birdcage Walk. Let European thunders Occasion no alarms, Though diplomatic blunders May cause a cry “To arms!” Sleep on, ye pale civilians; All thunder-clouds defy: On Europe’s countless millions The Sentry keeps his eye!

Should foreign-born rapscallions In London dare to show Their overgrown battalions, Be sure I’ll let you know. Should Russians or Norwegians Pollute our favoured clime With rough barbaric legions, I’ll mention it in time. So sleep in peace, civilians, The Continent defy; While on its countless millions The Sentry keeps his eye!

THE LOVE-SICK BOY

WHEN first my old, old love I knew, My bosom welled with joy; My riches at her feet I threw; I was a love-sick boy! No terms seemed too extravagant Upon her to employ— I used to mope, and sigh, and pant, Just like a love-sick boy!

But joy incessant palls the sense; And love unchanged will cloy, And she became a bore intense Unto her love-sick boy? With fitful glimmer burnt my flame, And I grew cold and coy, At last, one morning, I became Another’s love-sick boy!

POETRY EVERYWHERE

WHAT time the poet hath hymned The writhing maid, lithe-limbed, Quivering on amaranthine asphodel, How can he paint her woes, Knowing, as well he knows, That all can be set right with calomel?

When from the poet’s plinth The amorous colocynth Yearns for the aloe, faint with rapturous thrills, How can he hymn their throes Knowing, as well he knows, That they are only uncompounded pills?

Is it, and can it be, Nature hath this decree, Nothing poetic in the world shall dwell? Or that in all her works Something poetic lurks, Even in colocynth and calomel?

HE LOVES!

HE loves! If in the bygone years Thine eyes have ever shed Tears—bitter, unavailing tears, For one untimely dead— If in the eventide of life Sad thoughts of her arise, Then let the memory of thy wife Plead for my boy—he dies!

He dies! If fondly laid aside In some old cabinet, Memorials of thy long-dead bride Lie, dearly treasured yet, Then let her hallowed bridal dress— Her little dainty gloves— Her withered flowers—her faded tress— Plead for my boy—he loves!

TRUE DIFFIDENCE

MY boy, you may take it from me, That of all the afflictions accurst With which a man’s saddled And hampered and addled, A diffident nature’s the worst. Though clever as clever can be— A Crichton of early romance— You must stir it and stump it, And blow your own trumpet, Or, trust me, you haven’t a chance.

Now take, for example, my case: I’ve a bright intellectual brain— In all London city There’s no one so witty— I’ve thought so again and again. I’ve a highly intelligent face— My features cannot be denied— But, whatever I try, sir, I fail in—and why, sir? I’m modesty personified!

As a poet, I’m tender and quaint— I’ve passion and fervour and grace— From Ovid and Horace To Swinburne and Morris, They all of them take a back place. Then I sing and I play and I paint; Though none are accomplished as I, To say so were treason: You ask me the reason? I’m diffident, modest, and shy!

THE TANGLED SKEIN