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Title: The Battle of the Bays

Author: Owen Seaman

Release Date: July 27, 2009 [EBook #29515]

Language: English

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THE BATTLE OF THE BAYS


  _By the same Author_

  IN CAP AND BELLS
  HORACE AT CAMBRIDGE
  TILLERS OF THE SAND


  BY OWEN SEAMAN


  JOHN LANE
  THE BODLEY HEAD
  LONDON & NEW YORK
  1902


  _Copyright in the United States._
  _All Rights Reserved._


  _Eighth Edition_




CONTENTS.

                                                                  PAGE
     I. The Battle of the Bays                                       1
          1. A Song of Renunciation                                  1
          2. For the Albums of Crowned Heads Only                    5
          3. Marsyas in Hades                                       11
          4. The Rhyme of the Kipperling                            15
          5. A Ballad of a Bun                                      22
          6. A Vigo-Street Eclogue                                  27
          7. An Ode to Spring in the Metropolis                     37
          8. Yet                                                    42
          9. Elegi Musarum                                          44
    II. To Mr. William Watson                                       49
   III. England's Alfred Abroad                                     53
    IV. Lilith Libifera                                             57
     V. Ars Postera                                                 58
    VI. A New Blue Book                                             61
   VII. To a Boy-Poet of the Decadence                              64
  VIII. To Julia in Shooting Togs                                   66
    IX. The Links of Love                                           69
     X. Swords and Ploughshares                                     71
    XI. To the Lord of Potsdam                                      76
   XII. From the Lord of Potsdam                                    80
  XIII. 'The Spacious Times'                                        83




I. THE BATTLE OF THE BAYS.

1.

A SONG OF RENUNCIATION.

(AFTER A. C. S.)


  In the days of my season of salad,
    When the down was as dew on my cheek,
  And for French I was bred on the ballad,
    For Greek on the writers of Greek,--
  Then I sang of the rose that is ruddy,
    Of 'pleasure that winces and stings,'
  Of white women and wine that is bloody,
    And similar things.

  Of Delight that is dear as Desi-er,
    And Desire that is dear as Delight;
  Of the fangs of the flame that is fi-er,
    Of the bruises of kisses that bite;
  Of embraces that clasp and that sever,
    Of blushes that flutter and flee
  Round the limbs of Dolores, whoever
    Dolores may be.

  I sang of false faith that is fleeting
    As froth of the swallowing seas,
  Time's curse that is fatal as Keating
    Is fatal to amorous fleas;
  Of the wanness of woe that is whelp of
    The lust that is blind as a bat--
  By the help of my Muse and the help of
    The relative THAT.

  Panatheist, bruiser and breaker
    Of kings and the creatures of kings,
  I shouted on Freedom to shake her
    Feet loose of the fetter that clings;
  Far rolling my ravenous red eye,
    And lifting a mutinous lid,
  To all monarchs and matrons I said I
    Would shock them--and did.

  Thee I sang, and thy loves, O Thalassian,
    O 'noble and nude and antique!'
  Unashamed in the 'fearless old fashion'
    Ere washing was done by the week;
  When the 'roses and rapture' that girt you
    Were visions of delicate vice,
  And the 'lilies and languors of virtue'
    Not nearly so nice.

  O delights of the time of my teething,
    Félise, Fragoletta, Yolande!
  Foam-yeast of a youth in its seething
    On blasted and blithering sand!
  Snake-crowned on your tresses and belted
    With blossoms that coil and decay,
  Ye are gone; ye are lost; ye are melted
    Like ices in May.

  Hushed now is the bibulous bubble
    Of 'lithe and lascivious' throats;
  Long stript and extinct is the stubble
    Of hoary and harvested oats;
  From the sweets that are sour as the sorrel's
    The bees have abortively swarmed;
  And Algernon's earlier morals
    Are fairly reformed.

  I have written a loyal Armada,
    And posed in a Jubilee pose;
  I have babbled of babies and played a
    New tune on the turn of their toes;
  Washed white from the stain of Astarte,
    My books any virgin may buy;
  And I hear I am praised by a party
    Called Something Mackay!

  When erased are the records, and rotten
    The meshes of memory's net;
  When the grace that forgives has forgotten
    The things that are good to forget;
  When the trill of my juvenile trumpet
    Is dead and its echoes are dead;
  Then the laurel shall lie on the crumpet
    And crown of my head!


2.

FOR THE ALBUMS OF CROWNED HEADS ONLY.

(AFTER SIR E. A.)

1. _From the third Sa'dine Box of the eighth Gazelle of Ghazal._

  Yá Yá! Best-Belovéd! I look to thy dimples and drink;
  Tiddlihî! to thy cheek-pits and chin-pit, my Tulip, my Pink!

  See my heart rises up like a bubble, and bursts in my throat,
  And the dimples that draw it are Three, like the Men in a Boat.

  Thrice Three are the Muses, and I that begat her should guess
  That the Tenth is the TĒLE-EPHĒMERA, Pride of the PRESS!

  And the Graces were triplets till lately the fruitful Dîtî
  Propagated a Fourth, and the infant was W. G.

  From my post of Propinquity prone on my languorous knees
  My tears slither down like the Gum of Arabia's trees.

  "Am I drunk?" Heart-Entangler! By Hafiz, the Blender of Squish!
  'Tis the camel that sits on the prayer-mat is drunk as a fish.

  As I hope for the future Uprising, deny it who can,
  Two years I have worn the Blue Ribbon, come next Ramadan!

  Chest-Preserver! thou knowest thine eyes, they alone, are my drink,
  Blue-black as the sloes of the Garden or Stephens his Ink.

  On thy sugar-sweet liplets, my Cypress! I browse like a bee,
  And am aching, as after a surfeit of Melon, for thee!

  Low laid at thy feet--little feet--in the dust like a worm,
  Round the train of thy skirt, O my Peacock, I fitfully squirm.

  By Allah! I swoon, I rotate, I am sickly of hue!
  And the Infidel swore that Jam-Jam was a Temperance brew!

  Heart-Punisher! Surely I think it was jalapped with gin!
  Aha! Paradise! I am passing! So be it! Amin!


2. _From a little thing by the Princess Onono Goawaī._

  The bulbul hummeth like a book
      Upon the pooh-pooh tree,
  And now and then he takes a look
      At you and me,
      At me and you.
        Kuchi!
        Kuchoo!


3. _From the Sanskrit of Matabîlîwaijo._

  Wind! a word with thee! thou goest where my Well-Preservéd lies
  On her bed of bonny briers keeping off the wicked flies.

  Thou shalt know her by th' aroma of her bosom, which is musk,
  And her ivories that glisten like an elephantine tusk.

  Seek her coral-guarded tympanum and whisper "Poppinjai!"
  And (referring to her lover) kindly add "A-lal-lal-lai!"

  Breeze! thou knowest my condition; state it broadly, if you please,
  In a smattering of Indo-Turco-Perso-Japanese.

  Say my youth is flitting freely, and before the season goes
  From the garden of my Tûtsi I am fain to pluck a rose.

  Tell her I'm a wanton Sufí (what a Sufí really is
  She may know, perhaps--I count it one of Allah's mysteries).

  Fly, O blessed Breeze, and hither bring me back the net result;
  Fly as flies the rude mosquito from Abdullah's catapult.

  Fly as flies the rusty rickshaw of the Kurumayasan,
  When he scents a Hippopotam down the groves of Gulistan.

  Fly and cull, O cull, a section of my Pipkin's purple tress;
  Thou shalt find me drinking deeply with the Lords that rule the
        Mess;

  Quaffing mead and mighty sodas with the Johnís, Lords of War,
  Talking 'jungle in the gun-room,' underneath the deodar.

  Hoo Tawâ! I go to join them; he that cometh late is curst,
  For the Lords of War (by Akbar) have a most amazing thirst!


3.

MARSYAS IN HADES.

(AFTER SIR L. M.)

                              Next I saw
  A pensive gentleman of middle age,
  That leaned against a Druid oak, his pipe
  Pendent beneath his chin--a double one--
  (Meaning the pipe); reluctant was his breath,
  For he had mingled in the Morris dance
  And rested blown; but damsels in their teens,
  All decorous and decorously clad,
  Their very ankles hardly visible,
  Recalled his motions; while, for chaperon,
  Good Mrs. Grundy up against the wall
  Beamed approbation.

                            On his face I read
  Signs of high sadness such as poets wear,
  Being divinely discontented with
  The praise of _jeunes filles_. Even as I looked,
  He touched the portion of his pipe reserved
  For minor poetry of solemn tone,
  Checking the humorous stops intended for
  Electioneering posters and the like;
  And therewithal he made the following
  Addition to his _Songs Unsung_, or else
  His _Unremarked Remarks_:

                          "Dear Sir," he said,
  "Excuse my saying 'Sir' like that; it is
  Our way in Hades here among the damned;
  For you must know that some of us are damned
  Not only by faint praise but full applause
  Of simple critics. Take my case. In me
  Behold the good knight Marsyas, M.A.,
  Three times a candidate for Parliament,
  And twice retired; a Justice of the Peace;
  Master of Arts (I said), and better known
  In literary spheres as Master of
  The Mediocre-Obvious; and read
  By boarding-misses in their myriads.
  These dote upon me. Sweetly have I sung
  The commonplaces of philosophy
  In common parlance.

                    You have read perhaps
  The Cymric Triads? Poetry, they say,
  Excels alone by sheer simplicity
  Of language, subject, and invention. Sir!
  The excellence of mine lay that way too.
  But fate is partial. Heaven's fulgour moulds
  'To happiness some, some to unhappiness!'
  (Look you, the harp was Welsh that figured forth
  That excellent last line.) I ask you, Sir,
  What would you? Ill content with mortal praise,
  And haply somewhat overbold, I sought
  To be as gods be; sought, in fact, to filch
  Apollo's bays!

                    Ah me! Dear me! I fain
  Would use a stronger phrase, but hardly dare,
  Being, whatever else, respectable.
  I say I tired of vulgar homage, gift
  Of ignorance. 'High failure overleaps
  The bounds of low successes' (there, again,
  The harp that twanged was Welsh, but with an echo
  Of Browning). Godlike it must be, I thought,
  To climb the giddy brink; to pen, for instance,
  An Ode to the Imperial Institute,
  And fall, if bound to, from a decent height.

      I did and missed the laurel; still I go
  On writing; what you hear just now is blank,
  Distinctly blank, and might be measured by
  The kilomètre; yet I rhyme as well
  A little; but it takes a lot of time,
  And checks the lapse of my pellucid stream
  Not all conveniently."

                          Thereat he paused,
  And wrung the moisture from his pipe; but I,
  As one that was intolerably bored,
  Took even this occasion to be gone;
  And, going, marked him how he took his stile,
  Polished the waxen tablets, and began
  To make a Royal Pæan _by request_,
  Or so he said.


4.

THE RHYME OF THE KIPPERLING.

(AFTER R. K.)

[N.B.--No nautical terms or statements guaranteed.]

  Away by the haunts of the Yang-tse-boo,
    Where the Yuletide runs cold gin,
  And the rollicking sign of the _Lord Knows Who_
    Sees mariners drink like sin;
  Where the _Jolly Roger_ tips his quart
    To the luck of the _Union Jack_;
  And some are screwed on the foreign port,
    And some on the starboard tack;--
  Ever they tell the tale anew
    Of the chase for the kipperling swag;
  How the smack _Tommy This_ and the smack _Tommy That_
  They broached each other like a whiskey-vat,
    And the _Fuzzy-Wuz_ took the bag.

  Now this is the law of the herring fleet that harries the northern
        main,
  Tattooed in scars on the chests of the tars with a brand like the
        brand of Cain:
  That none may woo the sea-born shrew save such as pay their way
  With a kipperling netted at noon of night and cured ere the crack of
        day.

  It was the woman Sal o' the Dune, and the men were three to one,
  Bill the Skipper and Ned the Nipper and Sam that was Son of a Gun;
  Bill was a Skipper and Ned was a Nipper and Sam was the Son of a
        Gun,
  And the woman was Sal o' the Dune, as I said, and the men were three
        to one.

  There was never a light in the sky that night of the soft midsummer
        gales,
  But the great man-bloaters snorted low, and the young 'uns sang like
        whales;
  And out laughed Sal (like a dog-toothed wheel was the laugh that Sal
        laughed she):
  "Now who's for a bride on the shady side of up'ards of forty-three?"

  And Neddy he swore by butt and bend, and Billy by bend and bitt,
  And nautical names that no man frames but your amateur nautical
        wit;
  And Sam said, "Shiver my topping-lifts and scuttle my foc's'le
        yarn,
  And may I be curst, if I'm not in first with a kipperling slued
        astarn!"

  Now the smack _Tommy This_ and the smack _Tommy That_ and the
        _Fuzzy-Wuz_ smack, all three,
  Their captains bold, they were Bill and Ned and Sam respectivelee.

  And it's writ in the rules that the primary schools of kippers
        should get off cheap
  For a two mile reach off Foulness beach when the July tide's at
        neap;
  And the lawless lubbers that lust for loot and filch the yearling
        stock
  They get smart raps from the coastguard chaps with their blunderbuss
        fixed half-cock.

  Now Bill the Skipper and Ned the Nipper could tell green cheese from
        blue,
  And Bill knew a trick and Ned knew a trick, but Sam knew a trick
        worth two.

  So Bill he sneaks a corporal's breeks and a belt of pipeclayed
        hide,
  And splices them on to the jibsail-boom like a troopship on the
        tide.

  And likewise Ned to his masthead he runs a rag of the Queen's,
  With a rusty sword and a moke on board to bray like the Horse
        Marines.

  But Sam sniffs gore and he keeps off-shore and he waits for things
        to stir,
  Then he tracks for the deep with a long fog-horn rigged up like a
        bowchasér.

  Now scarce had Ned dropped line and lead when he spots the
        pipeclayed hide,
  And the corporal's breeks on the jibsail-boom like a troopship on
        the tide;
  And Bill likewise, when he ups and spies the slip of a rag of the
        Queen's,
  And the rusty sword, and he sniffs aboard the moke of the Horse
        Marines.

  So they each luffed sail, and they each turned tail, and they
        whipped their wheels like mad,
  When the one he said "By the Lord, it's Ned!" and the other, "It's
        Bill, by Gad!"

  Then about and about, and nozzle to snout, they rammed through
        breach and brace,
  And the splinters flew as they mostly do when a Government test
        takes place.

  Then up stole Sam with his little ram and the nautical talk flowed
        free,
  And in good bold type might have covered the two front sheets of the
        _P. M. G._

  But the fog-horn bluff was safe enough, where all was weed and
        weft,
  And the conger-eels were a-making meals, and the pick of the tackle
        left
  Was a binnacle-lid and a leak in the bilge and the chip of a cracked
        sheerstrake
  And the corporal's belt and the moke's cool pelt and a portrait of
        Francis Drake.

  So Sam he hauls the dead men's trawls and he booms for the
        harbour-bar,
  And the splitten fry are salted dry by the blink of the morning
        star.

  And Sal o' the Dune was wed next moon by the man that paid his way
  With a kipperling netted at noon of night and cured ere the crack of
        day;
  For such is the law of the herring fleet that bloats on the northern
        main,
  Tattooed in scars on the chests of the tars with a brand like the
        brand of Cain.

  And still in the haunts of the Yang-tse-boo
  Ever they tell the tale anew
    Of the chase for the kipperling swag;
  How the smack _Tommy This_ and the smack _Tommy That_
  They broached each other like a whiskey-vat,
    And the _Fuzzy-Wuz_ took the bag.


5.

A BALLAD OF A BUN.

(AFTER J. D.)

  'I am sister to the mountains now,
      And sister to the sun and moon.'

  'Heed not belletrist jargon.'

                        JOHN DAVIDSON.


  From Whitsuntide to Whitsuntide--
    That is to say, all through the year--
  Her patient pen was occupied
    With songs and tales of pleasant cheer.

  But still her talent went to waste
    Like flotsam on an open sea;
  She never hit the public taste,
    Or knew the knack of Bellettrie.

  Across the sounding City's fogs
    There hurtled round her weary head
  The thunder of the rolling logs;
    "The Critics' Carnival!" she said.

  Immortal prigs took heaven by storm,
    Prigs scattered largesses of praise;
  The work of both was rather warm;
    "This is," she said, "the thing that pays!"

  Sharp envy turned her wine to blood--
    I mean it turned her blood to wine;
  And this resolve came like a flood--
    "The cake of knowledge must be mine!

  "I am in Eve's predicament--
    I sha'n't be happy till I've sinned;
  Away!" She lightly rose, and sent
    Her scruples sailing down the wind.

  She did not tear her open breast,
    Nor leave behind a track of gore,
  But carried flannel next her chest,
    And wore the boots she always wore.

  Across the sounding City's din
    She wandered, looking indiscreet,
  And ultimately landed in
    The neighbourhood of Regent Street.

  She ran against a resolute
    Policeman standing like a wall;
  She kissed his feet and asked the route
    To where they held the Carnival.

  Her strange behaviour caused remark;
    They said, "Her reason has been lost;"
  Beside her eyes the gas was dark,
    But that was owing to the frost.

  A Decadent was dribbling by;
    "Lady," he said, "you seem undone;
  You need a panacea; try
    This sample of the Bodley bun.

  "It is fulfilled of precious spice,
    Whereof I give the recipe;--
  Take common dripping, stew in vice,
    And serve with vertu; taste and see!

  "And lo! I brand you on the brow
    As kin to Nature's lowest germ;
  You are sister to the microbe now,
    And second-cousin to the worm."

  He gave her of his golden store,
    Such hunger hovered in her look;
  She took the bun, and asked for more,
    And went away and wrote a book.

  To put the matter shortly, she
    Became the topic of the town;
  In all the lists of Bellettrie
    Her name was regularly down.

  "We recognise," the critics wrote,
    "Maupassant's verve and Heine's wit;"
  Some even made a verbal note
    Of Shakespeare being out of it.

  The seasons went and came again;
    At length the languid Public cried:
  "It is a sorry sort of Lane
    That hardly ever turns aside.

  "We want a little change of air;
    On that," they said, "we must insist;
  We cannot any longer bear
    The seedy sex-impressionist."

  Across the sounding City's din
    This rumour smote her on the ear:
  "The publishers are going in
    For songs and tales of pleasant cheer!"

  "Alack!" she said, "I lost the art,
    And left my womanhood foredone,
  When first I trafficked in the mart
    All for a mess of Bodley bun.

  "I cannot cut my kin at will,
    Or jilt the protoplastic germ;
  I am sister to the microbe still,
    And second-cousin to the worm!"


6.

A VIGO-STREET ECLOGUE.

(AFTER THE SAME)

  Mæcenas. John. George. Arthur. Grant. Richard.

                    MÆCENAS.

  What ho! a merry Christmas! Pff!
  Sharp blows the frosty blizzard's whff!
  Pile on more logs and let them roll,
  And pass the humming wassail-bowl!

                      JOHN.

  The wassail-bowl! the wind is snell!
  Drinc hael! and warm the poet's pell!

                    MÆCENAS.

  Richard! say something rustic.

                    RICHARD.

                                  Lo!
  The customary mistletoe,
  Prehensile on the apple-bough,
  Invites the usual kiss.

                     GEORGE.

                          And now
  Cathartic hellebore should be
  A cure for imbecility.

                     GRANT.

  Now holly-berries have begun
  To blush for Women That Have Done.

                     ARTHUR.

  The farmer sticks his stuffy goose!

                    MÆCENAS.

  Come, come, you grow a little loose;
  That's Michaelmas; you must remember
  That Michaelmas is in September!

                     ARTHUR.

  Northward the swallow sweeps his wing.

                    MÆCENAS.

  No, no! the bird arrives in spring!

                     ARTHUR.

  Such knowledge fits the country clown;
  We've better things to note in town.
  What's Nature's lore compared with women's?

                      JOHN.

  For this enigma go to S-m-ns;
  He is the----

                     ARTHUR.

                  Yes, I am, I know,
  The devil of a Romeo!

                      JOHN.

  Hark! hark! the waits, the precious waits!
  Their music beats at Heaven's gates.

                    MÆCENAS.

  What Bodley wight will sing a stave
  To match their strumming? I would have
  The manly bass of Hobbes's voice;
  But Unwin's house is Hobbes's choice.
  George! you've a baritone at need.

                     GEORGE.

  Alas! my famous _Keynotes_ lead
  To _Discords_.

                      JOHN.

                I've a little thing
  _Of Resurrection_. Shall I sing?

                     ARTHUR.

  Please do; but _à propos_ of what?

                      JOHN.

  I cannot say, unless _de bottes_.

[_Proceeds to sing a Ballad of Resurrection._

  A letter-card from my dear love!
    O folded page of blessed blue!
  She burst her many-buttoned glove,
    And ripped the perforation through.

  "My love, to-night, about eleven,
    With never a priest or passing-bell,
  We die! and meet, with luck, in Heaven,
    But anyhow at least in Hell!"

  Her courage very nearly failed,
    In fact she swooned along the floor;
  But curiosity prevailed,
    She came again and read some more.

  "There is no way but this to choose;
    My people fain would have us wed;
  But you and I have later views,
    And scorn the vulgar marriage-bed.

  "Far be it from me to dictate
    How best to break the mortal bond,
  But personally I may state
    That I shall use the village pond.

  "Be punctual, love, and let us meet
    For weal or woe!
  This line has lost a pair of feet;
    The post is now about to go."

  Ay, ay, she thought, to meet were well,
    But if we found each other out?
  You, say, in Heaven, I in Hell,
    Or else the other way about!

  Nay, there be heavy odds, she said,
    One fate shall save us both or damn;
  We surely shall be bracketed!
    She ceased and sent a telegram.

  To Guy le Preux de Balthazar--
    Here followed his address, and then
  This pregnant message--"Right you are!"
    She wrote it with the office pen.

  She flashed the phrase along the wires,
    Then, passing by a dagger-shop,
  Bought one and wiped it on her sire's
    Best graduated razor-strop.

  On second thoughts, she said, I lean
    To poison; true, a knife like this
  Looks pretty, rib and rib between,
    But people very often miss.

  She sought the chemist in his place;
    He sampled her with searching eye;
  She looked him frankly in the face,
    And told a wicked, wicked lie.

  "My hen," she said,--"a bantam blend--
    Has hatched a poor demented chick;
  To ease the gentle creature's end
    I want a pint of arsenic."

  The chemist deemed the order large,
    But said no thing and drew the drug;
  She seized and bore the sacred charge
    Before her in a pewter mug.

  At tea she faced her fell intent;
    Dressing, she lightly laughed at doom;
  Dined with the family, and spent
    The evening in the drawing-room.

  At ten the early rooster crowed;
    Ten-thirty struck and she was gone;
  She crossed alone the naked road;
    The road had really nothing on.

  Her golden braids hung down her back;
    Within her side she felt a stitch;
  And once the moon behind the wrack
    Came out and caught her in a ditch.

  Once ere she reached the trysting-pear
    She broke the slumber of the rooks;
  She wrung her hands, she tore her hair,
    And did as people do in books.

  From out her cloak she fetched the drug--
    "Thy health, my love, in Heaven or Hell!"
  Deep to the dregs she drained the mug
    And dropped it, feeling far from well.

  Upon the punctual stroke her fond
    True lover kept the oath he swore;
  Plunged softly in the village pond,
    But feeling chilly swam ashore.

  Next morning in the judgment-place
    Two pallid prisoners were tried;
  Their guilt was plain; it was a case
    Of ineffective suicide.

  Yestreen a member of the Force
    Had found a woman deadly sick,
  Lamenting, with sincere remorse,
    An overdose of arsenic.

  Another heard upon his beat
    One darkly muttering, "This is Hell!"
  His weed was wet from head to feet;
    He put him in a common cell.

  The Justice chewed the evidence;
    His eyes were soft, his lips were bland;
  It was, he said, a first offence;
    He merely gave a reprimand.

  "Go free, my poppets, keep the laws,
    And get ye wed at once," said he;
  The court indulged in rude applause;
    The usher cleared the gallery.

  The prison-warder, deeply stirred,
    Approached the culprits at the bar;
  Then haled them forth without a word
    Towards the nearest Registrar.

                    RICHARD.

  John, you surpass yourself. Next week
  Expect a flattering critique!

                      JOHN.

  The waits are whining in the cold
  With clavicorn and clarigold;
  They play them like a crumpled horn,
  The clarigold and clavicorn.


7.

AN ODE TO SPRING IN THE METROPOLIS.

(AFTER R. LE G.)

  Is this the Seine?
  And am I altogether wrong
  About the brain,
  Dreaming I hear the British tongue?
  Dear Heaven! what a rhyme!
  And yet 'tis all as good
  As some that I have fashioned in my time,
  Like _bud_ and _wood_;
  And on the other hand you couldn't have a more precise or neater
  Metre.

  Is this, I ask, the Seine?
  And yonder sylvan lane,
  Is it the _Bois_?
  _Ma foi!_
  _Comme elle est chic_, my Paris, my grisette!
  Yet may I not forget
  That London still remains the missus
  Of this Narcissus.

  No, no! 'tis not the Seine!
  It is the artificial mere
  That permeates St. James's Park.
  The air is bosom-shaped and clear;
  And, Himmel! do I hear the lark,
  The good old Shelley-Wordsworth lark?
  Even now, I prithee,
  Hark
  Him hammer
  On Heaven's harmonious stithy,
  Dew-drunken--like my grammar!

  And O the trees!
  Beneath their shade the hairless coot
  Waddles at ease,
  Hushing the magic of his gurgling beak;
  Or haply in Tree-worship leans his cheek
  Against their blind
  And hoary rind,
  Observing how the sap
  Comes humming upwards from the tap-
  Root!
  Thrice happy, hairless coot!

  And O the sun!
  See, see, he shakes
  His big red hands at me in wanton fun!
  A glorious image that! it might be Blake's;
  As in my critical capacity I took occasion to remark elsewhere,
  When heaping praise
  On this exceptionally happy phrase,
  Although I made it up myself.
  But I and Blake, we really constitute a pair,
  Each being rather like an artless woodland elf.

  And O the stars! I cannot say
  I see a star just now,
  Not at this time of day;
  But anyhow
  The stars are all my brothers;
  (This verse is shorter than the others).

  O Constitution Hill!
  (This verse is shorter still).

  Ah! London, London in the Spring!
  You are, you know you are,
  So full of curious sights,
  Especially by nights.
  From gilded bar to gilded bar
  Youth goes his giddy whirl,
  His heart fulfilled of Music-Hall,
  His arm fulfilled of girl!
  I frankly call
  That last effect a perfect pearl!

  I know it's
  Not given to many poets
  To frame so fair a thing
  As this of mine, of Spring.
  Indeed, the world grows Lilliput
  All but
  A precious few, the heirs of utter godlihead,
  Who wear the yellow flower of blameless bodlihead!

  And they, with Laureates dead, look down
  On smaller fry unworthy of the crown,
  Mere mushroom men, puff-balls that advertise
  And bravely think to brush the skies.
  Great is advertisement with little men!
  _Moi, qui vous parle, L- G-ll--nn-_,
  Have told them so;
  I ought to know!


8.

YET.

(AFTER F. E. W.)

  Sing me a drawing-room song, darling!
    Sing by the sunset's glow;
  Now while the shadows are long, darling;
    Now while the lights are low;
  Something so chaste and so coy, darling!
    Something that melts the chest;
  Milder than even Molloy, darling!
    Better than Bingham's best.

  Sing me a drawing-room song, darling!
    Sing as you sang of yore,
  Lisping of love that is strong, darling!
    Strong as a big barn-door;
  Let the true knight be bold, darling!
    Let him arrive too late;
  Stick in a bower of gold, darling!
    Stick in a golden gate.

  Sing me a drawing-room song, darling!
    Bear on the angels' wings
  Children that know no wrong, darling!
    Little cherubic things!
  Sing of their sunny hair, darling!
    Get them to die in June;
  Wake, if you can, on the stair, darling!
    Echoes of tiny shoon.

  Sing me a drawing-room song, darling!
    Sentiment may be false,
  Yet it will worry along, darling!
    Set to a tum-tum valse;
  See that the verses are few, darling!
    Keep to the rule of three;
  That will be better for you, darling!
    Certainly better for me.


9.

ELEGI MUSARUM.

(AFTER W. W.)

[To Mr. St. Loe Strachey.]

  Dawn of the year that emerges, a fine and ebullient Phœnix,
    Forth from the cinders of Self, out of the ash of the Past;
  Year that discovers my Muse in the thick of purpureal sonnets,
    Slating diplomacy's sloth, blushing for 'Abdul the d----d';
  Year that in guise of a herald declaring the close of the tourney
    Clears the redoubtable lists hot with the Battle of Bays;
  Binds on the brows of the Tory, the highly respectable Austin,
    Laurels that Phœbus of old wore on the top of his tuft;

  Leaving the locks of the hydra, of Bodley the numerous-headed,
    Clean as the chin of a boy, bare as a babe in a bath;
  Year that--I see in the vista the principal verb of the sentence
    Loom as a deeply-desired bride that is late at the post--
  Year that has painfully tickled the lachrymal nerves of the Muses,
    Giving Another the gift due to Respectfully Theirs;--
  _Hinc illæ lacrimæ!_ Ah, reader! I grossly misled you;
    See, it was false; there is no principal verb after all!

  His likewise is the anguish, who followed with soft serenading
    Me as the tremulous tide tracks the meandering moon;
  Climbing as Romeo clomb, peradventure by help of a flower-pot,
    Where in her balconied bower lay, inexpressibly coy,
  Juliet, not as the others, supinely, insanely erotic,
    Pallid and yellow of hue, very degenerate souls,
  Rioting round with the rapture of palpitant ichorous ardour,
    But an immaculate maid, 'one,' you may say, 'of the best'!
  His, I repeat, is the anguish--my journalist, eulogist critic,
    Strachey, the generous judge, Saintly unlimited Loe!

  Vainly the stolid _Spectator_, bewildered with fabulous bow-wows,
    Sick with a surfeit of dog, ran me for all it was worth!
  Vainly--if I may recur to a metaphor drawn from the ocean,
    Long (in a figure of speech) tied to the tail of the moon--
  Vainly, O excellent organ! with ample and aqueous unction
    Once, as a rule, in a week, 'cleansing the Earth of her stain';
  (Here you will possibly pardon the natural scion of poets,
    Proud with humility's pride, spoiling a passage from Keats)--
  Vainly your voice on the ears of impregnable Laureate-makers,
    Rang as the sinuous sea rings on a petrified coast;
  Vainly your voice with a subtle and slightly indelicate largess,
    Broke on an obdurate world hymning the advent of Me;
  When from the 'commune of air,' from 'the exquisite fabric of
        Silence,'
    I, a superior orb, burst into exquisite print!

  What shall we say for your greeting, O good horticultural Alfred!
    Royalty's darling and pride, crown of the Salisbury Press?
  Now when the negligent Public, in search of a subject for dinner,
    Asks for the names of your books, Lord! what a boom there will
        be!
  Hoarse in Penbryn are the howlings that rise for the hope of the
        Cymri;
    Over her Algernon's head Putney composes a dirge;
  Edwin anathematises politely in various lingos;
    Davidson ruminates hard over a _Ballad of Hell_;
  Fondly Le Gallienne fancies how pretty the Delphian laurels
    Would have appeared on his own hairy and passionate poll;
  I, imperturbably careless, untainted of jealousy's jaundice,
    Simply regret the profane contumely done to the Muse;
  Done to the Muse in the person of Me, her patron, that never
    Licked Ministerial lips, dusted the boots of the Court!
  Surely I hear through the noisy and nauseous clamour of Carlton
    Sobs of the sensitive Nine heave upon Helicon's hump!




II. TO MR. WILLIAM WATSON.

[On writing the first instalment of _The Purple East_, a 'fine sonnet
which it is our privilege to publish.'--_Westminster Gazette_, Dec.
16, 1895.]


  Dear Mr. Watson, we have heard with wonder,
    Not all unmingled with a sad regret,
  That little penny blast of purple thunder,
    You issued in the _Westminster Gazette_;
  The Editor describes it as a sonnet;
  I wish to make a few remarks upon it.

  _Never, O craven England, nevermore
    Prate thou of generous effort, righteous aim!_
  So ran the lines, and left me very sore,
    For you may guess my heart was hot with shame:
  Even thus early in your ample song
  I felt that something must be really wrong.

  But when I learned that our ignoble nation
    Lay sleeping like a log, and lay alone,
  Propping, according to your information,
    _Abdul the Damned on his infernal throne_,
  O then I scattered to the wind my fears,
  And nearly went and joined the Volunteers.

  But just in time the thought occurred to me
    That England commonly commits her course
  To men as good at heart as even we
    And possibly much richer in resource;
  That we had better mind our own affairs
  And leave these gentlemen to manage theirs.

  It further seemed a work uncommon light
    For one like you, a casual civilian,
  To order half a hemisphere to fight
    And slaughter one another by the million,
  While you yourself, a paper Galahad,
  Spilt ink for blood upon a blotting-pad.

  The days are gone when sword and poet's pen
    One gallant gifted hand was wont to wield;
  When Taillefer in face of Harold's men
    Rode foremost on to Senlac's fatal field,
  And tossed his sword in air, and sang a spell
  Of Roland's battle-song, and, singing, fell.

  The days are gone when troubadours by dozens
    Polished their steel and joined the stout crusade,
  Strumming, in memory of pretty cousins,
    _The Girl I left behind Me_, on parade;
  They often used to rattle off a ballad in
  The intervals of punishing the Saladin.

  In later times, of course I know there's Byron,
    Who by his own report could play the man;
  I seem to see him with his Lesbian lyre on,
    And brandishing a useful yataghan;
  Though never going altogether strong, he
  Managed at least to die at Missolonghi.

  No more the trades of lute and lance are linked,
    Though doubtless under many martial bonnets
  Brave heads there be that harbour the distinct
    Belief that they can manufacture sonnets;
  But on the other hand a bard is not
  Supposed to run the risk of being shot.

  Then since your courage lacks a crucial test,
    And politics were never your profession,
  Dear Mr. Watson, won't you find it best
    To temper valour with a due discretion?
  That so, despite the fond _Spectator's_ booming,
  Above your brow the bays may yet be blooming.




III. ENGLAND'S ALFRED ABROAD.

[M. Alfred Austin, poète-lauréat d'Angleterre, vient d'arriver à
Nice, où il a devancé la Reine. Il était, hier, dans les jardins de
Monte-Carlo. Sera-ce sous notre ciel qu'il écrira son premier
poème?--_Menton-Mondain_.]


  Wrong? are they wrong? Of course they are,
    I venture to reply;
  For I bore 'my first' (and, I hope, my worst)
    A month or so gone by;
  And I can't repeat it under this
    Or any other sky.

  What! has the public never heard
    In these benighted climes
  That nascent note of my Laureate throat,
    That fluty fitte of rhymes
  Which occupied about a half
    A column of the _Times_?

  They little know what they have lost,
    Nor what a carnal beano
  They might have spent in the thick of Lent
    If only Daniel Leno
  Had sung them _Jameson's Ride_ and knocked
    The Monaco Casino.

  Some day the croupiers' furtive eyes
    Will all be wringing wet;
  Even the Prince will hardly mince
    The language of regret
  At entertaining unawares
    The famed Alhambra Pet.

  But still not quite incognito
    I mark the moving scene,
  In a tepid zone where (like my own)
    The palms are ever green,
  And find myself reported as
    A herald of the Queen.

  Here where aloft the heavens are blue,
    And blue the seas below,
  I roll my eye and fondly try
    To get the rhymes to go,
  As I pace _The Garden that I love_,
    Composing all I know.

  But when my poet-pinions droop,
    And all the air is wan,
  I enter in to the courts of sin
    And put a louis on,
  And hold my heart and look again,
    And lo! the thing is gone!

  Wrong? is it wrong? To baser crafts
    Has England's Alfred pandered,
  Who once to the sign of Phœbus' shrine
    With awesome gait meandered,
  And ever wrote in the cause of right
    According to his _Standard_?

  Nay! this is life! to take a turn
    On Fortune's captious crust;
  To pluck the day in a human way
    Like men of common dust;
  But O! if England's only bard
    Should absolutely bust!

  A laureate never borrows on
    His coming quarter's pay;
  And I mean to stop or ever I pop
    My crown of peerless bay;
  So I'll take the next _rapide_ to Nice,
    And the 'bus to Cimiez.

  _MENTONE, Feb., 1896._




IV. LILITH LIBIFERA.


  Exhumed from out the inner cirque of Hell
    By kind permission of the Evil One,
    Behold her devilish presentment, done
  By Master Aubrey's weird unearthly spell!
  This is that Lady known as Jezebel,
    Or Lilith, Eden's woman-scorpion,
    Libifera, that is, that takes the bun,
  Borgia, Vivien, Cussed Damosel.

  Hers are the bulging lips that fairly break
    The pumpkin's heart; and hers the eyes that shame
      The wanton ape that culls the cocoa-nuts.
  Even such the yellow-bellied toads that slake
    Nocturnally their amorous-ardent flame
      In the wan waste of weary water-butts.




V. ARS POSTERA.

[On an advertisement of _A Comedy of Sighs_.]


  Mr. Aubrey Beer de Beers,
    You're getting quite a high renown;
  Your Comedy of Leers, you know,
    Is posted all about the town;
  This sort of stuff I cannot puff,
    As Boston says, it makes me 'tired';
  Your Japanee-Rossetti girl
    Is not a thing to be desired.

  Mr. Aubrey Beer de Beers,
    New English Art (excuse the chaff)
  Is like the Newest Humour style,
    It's not a thing at which to laugh;
  But all the same, you need not maim
    A beauty reared on Nature's rules;
  A simple maid _au naturel_
    Is worth a dozen spotted ghouls.

  Mr. Aubrey Beer de Beers,
    You put strange phantoms on our walls,
  If not so daring as _To-day's_,
    Nor quite so Hardy as _St. Paul's_;
  Her sidelong eyes, her giddy guise,--
    _Grande Dame Sans Merci_ she may be;
  But there is that about her throat
    Which I myself don't care to see.

  Mr. Aubrey Beer de Beers,
    The Philistines across the way,
  They say her lips--well, never mind
    Precisely what it is they say;
  But I have heard a drastic word
    That scarce is fit for dainty ears;
  But then their taste is not the kind
    Of taste to flatter Beer de Beers.

  Bless me, Aubrey Beer de Beers,
    On fair Elysian lawns apart
  Burd Helen of the Trojan time
    Smiles at the latest mode of Art;
  Howe'er it be, it seems to me,
    It's not important to be New;
  New Art would better Nature's best,
    But Nature knows a thing or two.

  Aubrey, Aubrey Beer de Beers,
    Are there no models at your gate,
  Live, shapely, possible and clean?
    Or won't they do to 'decorate'?
  Then by all means bestrew your scenes
    With half the lotuses that blow,
  Pothooks and fishing-lines and things,
    But let the human woman go!




VI. A NEW BLUE BOOK.

[It was hardly to be supposed that the young decadents who once rioted
... in the _Yellow Book_ would be content to remain in obscurity after
the metamorphosis of that periodical and the consequent exclusion of
themselves. The _Savoy_, we learn, to be edited by Mr. Arthur Symons
and Mr. Aubrey Beardsley, will appear early in December.--_Globe_.]


  'The world's great age begins anew,'
    Cold virtue's weeds are cast;
  Our heads are light, our tales are blue,
    And things are moving fast;
  And no one any longer quarrels
  With anybody else's morals.

  A racier journal stamps its pages
    With Beardsleys braver far;
  A bolder Editor engages
    To shame the morning star,
  On _London Nights_, not near so chilly,
  Sampling a shadier Piccadilly.

  Satyr and Faun their late repose
    Now burst like anything;
  New Mænads, turning sprightlier toes,
    Enjoy a jauntier fling;
  With lustier lips old Pan shall play
  Drain-pipes along the sewer's way.

  Priapus, wrongly left for dead,
    Is dead no more than Pan;
  Silenus rises from his bed
    And hiccups like a man;
  There's something rather chaste (between us)
  About Priapus and Silenus.

  O cease to brew your Bodley pap
    Whence all the spice is spent!
  The splendour of its primal tap
    Was gone when Aubrey went;
  Behold that subtle Sphinx prepare
  Fresh liquors fit to lift your hair.

  Another Magazine shall rise
    And paint the palsied town,
  Of humbler hue, of simpler size,
    And sold at half a crown;
  Please note the pregnant brand--_Savoy_,
  And don't confuse with _saveloy_.[*]


FOOTNOTES:

  [*] Saveloy, a kind of sausage; French _cervelas_, from its containing
      brains.--SKEAT.




VII. TO A BOY-POET OF THE DECADENCE.

[Showing curious reversal of epigram--'La nature l'a fait sanglier; la
civilisation l'a réduit à l'état de cochon.']


  But my good little man, you have made a mistake
    If you really are pleased to suppose
  That the Thames is alight with the lyrics you make;
    We could all do the same if we chose.

  From Solomon down, we may read, as we run,
    Of the ways of a man and a maid;
  There is nothing that's new to us under the sun,
    And certainly not in the shade.

  The erotic affairs that you fiddle aloud
    Are as vulgar as coin of the mint;
  And you merely distinguish yourself from the crowd
    By the fact that you put 'em in print.

  You're a 'prentice, my boy, in the primitive stage,
    And you itch, like a boy, to confess:
  When you know a bit more of the arts of the age
    You will probably talk a bit less.

  For your dull little vices we don't care a fig,
    It is _this_ that we deeply deplore;
  You were cast for a common or usual pig,
    But you play the invincible bore.




VIII. TO JULIA IN SHOOTING TOGS

and a Herrickose vein.


  Whenas to shoot my Julia goes,
  Then, then, (methinks) how bravely shows
  That rare arrangement of her clothes!

  So shod as when the Huntress Maid
  With thumping buskin bruised the glade,
  She moveth, making earth afraid.

  Against the sting of random chaff
  Her leathern gaiters circle half
  The arduous crescent of her calf.

  Unto th' occasion timely fit,
  My love's attire doth show her wit,
  And of her legs a little bit.

  Sorely it sticketh in my throat,
  She having nowhere to bestow't,
  To name the absent petticoat.

  In lieu whereof a wanton pair
  Of knickerbockers she doth wear,
  Full windy and with space to spare.

  Enlargéd by the bellying breeze,
  Lord! how they playfully do ease
  The urgent knocking of her knees!

  Lengthways curtailéd to her taste
  A tunic circumvents her waist,
  And soothly it is passing chaste.

  Upon her head she hath a gear
  Even such as wights of ruddy cheer
  Do use in stalking of the deer.

  Haply her truant tresses mock
  Some coronal of shapelier block,
  To wit, the bounding billy-cock.

  Withal she hath a loaded gun,
  Whereat the pheasants, as they run,
  Do make a fair diversión.

  For very awe, if so she shoots,
  My hair upriseth from the roots,
  And lo! I tremble in my boots!




IX. THE LINKS OF LOVE.


  My heart is like a driver-club,
    That heaves the pellet hard and straight,
  That carries every let and rub,
    The whole performance really great;
  My heart is like a bulger-head,
    That whiffles on the wily tee,
  Because my love has kindly said
    She'll halve the round of life with me.

  My heart is also like a cleek,
    Resembling most the mashie sort,
  That spanks the object, so to speak,
    Across the sandy bar to port;
  And hers is like a putting-green,
    The haven where I boast to be,
  For she assures me she is keen
    To halve the round of life with me.

  Raise me a bunker, if you can,
    That beetles o'er a deadly ditch,
  Where any but the bogey-man
    Is practically bound to pitch;
  Plant me beneath a hedge of thorn,
    Or up a figurative tree,
  What matter, when my love has sworn
    To halve the round of life with me?




X. SWORDS AND PLOUGHSHARES.

PART I. PRESTO FURIOSO.


  Spontaneous Us!
  O my Camarados! I have no delicatesse as a diplomat, but I go blind
        on Libertad!
  Give me the flap-flap of the soaring Eagle's pinions!
  Give me the tail of the British lion tied in a knot inextricable,
        not to be solved anyhow!
  Give me a standing army (I say 'give me,' because just at present we
        want one badly, armies being often useful in time of war).

  I see our superb fleet (I take it that we are to have a superb fleet
        built almost immediately);
  I observe the crews prospectively; they are constituted of various
        nationalities, not necessarily American;
  I see them sling the slug and chew the plug;
  I hear the drum begin to hum;

  Both the above rhymes are purely accidental and contrary to my
        principles.
  We shall wipe the floor of the mill-pond with the scalps of
        able-bodied British tars!
  I see Professor Edison about to arrange for us a torpedo-hose on
        wheels, likewise an infernal electro-semaphore;
  I see Henry Irving dead-sick and declining to play Corporal
        Brewster;
  Cornell, I yell! I yell Cornell!

  I note the Manhattan boss leaving his dry-goods store and investing
        in a small Gatling-gun and a ten-cent banner;
  I further note the Identity evolved out of forty-four spacious and
        thoughtful States;
  I note Canada as shortly to be merged in that Identity; similarly
        Van Diemen's Land, Gibraltar and Stratford-on-Avon;
  Briefly, I see Creation whipped!

  O ye Colonels! I am with you (I too am a Colonel and on the
        pension-list);
  I drink to the lot of you; to Colonels Cleveland, Hitt, Vanderbilt,
        Chauncey M. Depew, O'Donovan Rossa and the late Colonel
        Monroe;
  I drink an egg-flip, a morning-caress, an eye-opener, a maiden-bosom,
        a vermuth-cocktail, three sherry-cobblers and a gin-sling!
  Good old Eagle!


PART II. INTERMEZZO DOLOROSO.

[Allowing time for the fall of American securities to the extent of
some odd hundred millions sterling; also for the Day of Rest.]


PART III. ANDANTE AMABILE.

    Who breathed a word of war?
  Why, surely we are men and Plymouth brothers!
  Pray, what in thunder should we cut each other's
        Carotids for?

    Merciful powers forefend!
  For we by gold-edged bonds are bound alway,
  Besides a lot of things that never pay
        A dividend!

    Christmas! we cry thee _Ave_!
  At such a time, when hearts with love are filled,
  It seems inopportune for us to build
        The needful navy.

    In fact in many a church
  Uprise the prayer and supplicating psalm
  That Heaven would keep our spreading Eagle calm
        Upon his perch.

    Goodwill and peace and plenty!
  Our leading congregations here agree
  To vote for this arrangement, _nemine
        Contradicente_.

    Greatly be they extolléd
  Who occupied the tabernacle-chair
  And put it to the meeting then and there
        And passed it solid!

    That print has also played
  A useful part that sent an invitation
  To Redmond to relieve the situation
        (Answer prepaid).

    Say, Sirs, and shall we sever?
  And mar the fair exchange of fatted steers,
  Chicago pig, and eligible peers?
        No! never, never!

    Shall gore be made to flow?
  Like kindred Sohrabs shall we knock our Rustums,
  And blast our beautiful McKinley customs?
        Lord love us! no!

    Then, burst the sundering bar!
  Our punctured pockets yearn across the ocean;
  Till now we never had the faintest notion
        How dear you are!

    O love of other years!
  Wall Street, aweary for her broken bliss,
  Waits like a loving crocodile to kiss
        Again with tears!




XI. TO THE LORD OF POTSDAM.

[On sending a certain telegram.]


  Majestic Monarch! whom the other gods,
    For fear of their immediate removal,
  Consulting hourly, seek your awful nod's
        Approval;

  Lift but your little finger up to strike,
    And lo! 'the massy earth is riven' (Shelley),
  The habitable globe is shaken like
        A jelly.

  By your express permission for the last
    Eight years the sun has regularly risen;
  And editors, that questioned this, have passed
        To prison.

  In Art you simply have to say, "I shall!"
    Beethoven's fame is rendered transitory;
  And Titian cloys beside your clever all-
        -egory.

  We hailed you Admiral: your eagle sight
    Foresaw Her Majesty's benign intentions;
  A uniform was ready of the right
        Dimensions.

  Your wardrobe shines with all the shapes and shades,
    That genius can fix in fancy suitings;
  For _levées_, false alarums, full parades
        And shootings.

  But save the habit marks the man of gore
    Your spurs are yet to win, my callow Kaiser!
  Of fighting in the field you know no more
        Than I, Sir!

  When Grandpapa was thanking God with hymns
    For gallant Frenchmen dying in the ditches,
  Your nurse had barely braced your little limbs
        In breeches.

  And doubtless, where he roosts beside his bock,
    The Game Old Bird that played the leading fiddle
  Smiles grimly as he hears your perky cock-
        -a-diddle.

  Be well advised, my youthful friend, abjure
    These tricks that smack of Cleon and the tanners;
  And let the Dutch instruct a German Boor
        In manners.

  Nor were you meant to solve the nations' knots,
    Or be the Earth's Protector, willy-nilly;
  You only make yourself and royal Pots-
        -dam silly.

  Our racing yachts are not at present dressed
    In bravery of bunting to amuse you,
  Nor can the licence of an honoured guest
        Excuse you.

  But if your words are more than wanton play
    And you would like to meet the old sea-rover,
  Name any course from Delagoa Bay
        To Dover.

  Meanwhile observe a proper reticence;
    We ask no more; there never was a rumour
  Of asking Hohenzollerns for a sense
        Of humour!




XII. FROM THE LORD OF POTSDAM.


  We, William, Kaiser, planted on Our throne
  By heaven's grace, but chiefly by Our own,
  Do deign to speak. Then let the earth be dumb,
  And other nations cease their senseless hum!
    Seldom, if ever, does a chance arise
  For Us to pose before Our people's eyes;
  But this is one of them, this natal day
  Whereon Our Ancient and Imperial sway,
  Which to the battle's death-defying trump
  Welded the States in one confounded lump,
  (As many tasty meats are blent within
  The German sausage's encircling skin)
  By Our decree is twenty-five precisely,
  And, under Us (and God) still doing nicely.
    Therefore ye Princelings, Plenipotentates,
  And Representatives of various States,
  A cool Imperial pint your Kaiser drains,
  Both to Our 'more immediate' domains,
  And to Our lands, Our isles beyond the sea,
  Our World-embracing Greater Germany!
  Let loose the breathings of Our Royal Band,
  We give a rouse--_hoch! hoch!_--to HELGOLAND!

[_Kaiserliche Kapelle_ plays: _O Helgoland! mein Helgoland!_ Air--_Die
Wacht am Rhein_.]

WILLIAM, KAISER, continues:--

  There are that languish on this festal day
  Damned and impounded for _lèse-majesté_;
  We, William, in Our plentitude of grace,
  Propose to pardon every hundredth case;
  And though their sentence was no more than just
  We offer each a copy of Our bust,
  With option of a fine; but, be it known,
  Whoso again shall deem his life his own,
  Or find in Ours the faintest flaw or fleck,
  God helping, We will hang him by the neck.
  Yea, he shall surely curse his impious star
  That dares to question Who or where We are!
  Worship your Cæsar, and (C.V.) your God;
  Who spares the child may haply spoil the rod.
    Many Our uniforms, but We are one,
  And one Our empire over which the sun,
  Careering on his cloud-compulsive way,
  Sets once, but never more than once, a day.
  The seas are Ours: world-wide upon the oceans
  Our fleet commands the liveliest emotions;
  Go where you will, you find Our German manners
  Prevailing under other people's banners;
  Go where you will, you cannot but remark
  The cheap, but never nasty, German clerk;
  Observe Our exports; do you ever see
  Things made as they are made in Germany?
  Always at home on Earth's remotest shores
  _E.g._, among Our loved, low-German Boers,
  Freely Our folk expectorate, and there
  Our German bands inflame the balmy air;
  Likewise again Our passionate bassoons
  Tickle the niggers of the Cameroons;
  Or others over whom Our Eagle flaps
  In places not at present on the maps.
    One more Imperial pint! your Kaiser drinks
  To German intercourse with missing links!
  Let loose the breathings of Our Royal Band,
  We give--_hoch! hoch!_--Our glorious HINTERLAND!

[_Kaiserliche Kapelle_ plays: _O Hinterland! mein Hinterland!_ (Air as
before); during which WILLIAM, KAISER, resumes his throne.]




XIII. 'THE SPACIOUS TIMES.'

[On Drake's return from his filibustering expedition of 1580 the Queen
went on board his ship at Deptford, and after partaking of a banquet
conferred on him the honour of knighthood, at the same time declaring
herself mightily pleased with all that he had done.]


  I wish that I had flourished then,
    When ruffs and raids were in the fashion,
  When Shakespeare's art and Raleigh's pen
    Encouraged patriotic passion;
  For though I draw my happy breath
    Beneath a Queen as good and gracious,
  The times of Great Elizabeth
    Were more conveniently spacious.

  Large-hearted age of cakes and ale!
    When, undeterred by nice conditions,
  Good Master Drake would lightly sail
    On little privateer commissions;
  Careering round with sword and flame
    And no pretence of polished manners,
  He planted out in England's name
    A most refreshing lot of banners.

  Blest era, when the reckless tar,
    Elated by a sense of duty,
  Feared not to face his country's Bar
    But freely helped himself to booty;
  Returning home with bulging hold
    The Queen would meet him, much excited,
  Pronounce him worth his weight in gold
    And promptly have the hero knighted.

  No Extra Special, piping hot,
    Broke out in unexpected Pyrrhics;
  No Poet Laureate on the spot
    Composed apologetic lyrics;
  Transpiring slowly by-and-by,
    The act was voted one of loyalty;
  The nation winked the other eye,
    And pocketed the usual royalty.

  Ere Reuter yet had found his range,
    These trifles done across the ocean
  Produced upon the Stock Exchange
    No preternatural emotion;
  Not yet the Kaiserlich I AM
    Made wingéd words and then repented;
  He wrote as yet no telegram,
    Nor was, in fact, himself invented.

  No Justice Hawkins gauged the fault
    Of irresponsible incursions;
  The early Hawkins, gallant salt,
    Knew well the charm of such diversions;
  Men never saw that moving sight
    When legal luminaries muster,
  And very solemnly indict
    A well-conducted filibuster.

  No Member had the hardy nerve
    To criticise our depredations
  As unadapted to preserve
    The perfect comity of nations;
  No High Commissioner would doubt
    If brigandage was quite judicial;
  Indeed we mostly did without
    This rather eminent Official.

  No Ministry would care a rap
    For theoretic arbitration;
  They simply modified the map
    To meet the latest annexation;
  And so without appeal to law,
    Or other needless waste of tissue,
  The Lion, where he put his paw,
    Remained and propagated issue.

  To-day we wax exceeding fat
    On lands our roving fathers raided;
  And blush with holy horror at
    Their lawless sons who do as they did;
  No doubt the age improves a lot,
    It grows more honest, more veracious;
  But, as I said, the times are not
    Quite so conveniently spacious.




NOTE


To the Editors of _The World_ and _The National Observer_, and to the
Proprietors of _Punch_, I wish to express my thanks for their courtesy
in permitting me to republish these verses.

O. S.

       *       *       *       *       *




The Battle of the Bays.

  _Eighth Edition._
  Price 3s. 6d. _net._ Fcap. 8vo. Price $1.25.

SOME PRESS OPINIONS.

"The new 'Rejected Addresses' of Mr. Owen Seaman are quite worthy to
be ranked with the classic volumes of Horace and James.... The thing
is done as well as it could be.... This little volume is _merum
sal_."--_The Spectator_.

"Mr. Kipling has never been so nimbly caught before, for Mr. Seaman
has the art to reproduce his flute-notes as well as his big drum....
Several of the miscellaneous pieces are among the very best humourous
poetry of this generation. We have laughed at nothing lately more than
at 'Ars Postera,' at 'A New Blue Book,' at 'To a Boy-Poet of the
Decadence,' and at 'To Julia in Shooting Togs.' But, after all, Mr.
Seaman's masterpiece up to date is certainly 'To the Lord of Potsdam.'
... This will live, or we are greatly mistaken, among the most
effective examples of historical satire-lyric."--_The Saturday
Review_.

"It is certainly remarkable, in our dearth of great poetry, how good
of its sort the satiric verse of our day is--so good, in fact, that
nothing but the best will serve, and even the best, like Mr. Seaman's,
which in the day when Sir George Trevelyan was a wit would have taken
people's breath away, is apt to be treated as mere journalism.... But
really it is the most characteristic expression of our time, using the
accustomed forms of verse to point the neatest criticisms and the
slyest of epigrams.... Mr. Seaman's humourous imitation of Mr.
Swinburne, Sir Edwin Arnold, Sir Lewis Morris, Mr. Kipling, and the
rest, is in every case very funny."--_St. James's Gazette_.

"The book abounds in excellent fooling and really wholesome satire,
the ingenuity and felicity of verse and expression giving it likewise
a high artistic value.... Quips and cranks of audacious wit, strokes
of a humour always sane and healthy, waylay the reader incessantly,
and leave him no peace for laughter."--_The Westminster Gazette_.

"Mr. Seaman must be tired of being compared to Calverley and J. K. S.,
but he is of their company, and, what is more, on their level. 'The
Battle of the Bays' ... bristles with points; it is brilliant, ... and
it has that easy conversational flow which is the one absolutely
necessary characteristic of good humourous poetry.... One charm of
writing such as Mr. Seaman's is that it makes us feel quite obliged to
poets whom we have never admired for being so good to parody."--_Pall
Mall Gazette_.

"Mr. Owen Seaman has a very neat talent for parody.... The 'Ballad of
a Bun' is exceedingly funny, and ought to make even Mr. John Davidson
laugh.... All the imitations are good."--_The Times_.

"His versatility and bright and ready wit are conspicuous in all his
work. As a parodist he is second to none, not even to Mr. Calverley,
if we may take the word of the reviewers.... Mr. Seaman cracks the
whip with consummate skill, and applies it with such naughty
precision, that even his victims must find it difficult to withhold
their admiration."--_The National Observer_.

       *       *       *       *       *


_BY THE SAME AUTHOR._

Horace at Cambridge

  _New and Revised Edition._
  Price 3s. 6d. _net._ Fcap. 8vo. Price $1.25.

"To every university man ... this book will be a rare treat. But in
virtue of its humour, its extreme and felicitous dexterity of
workmanship both in rhyme and metre ... it will appeal to a far wider
public."--_Punch_.

"We very cordially recommend Mr. Seaman's book ... to all who are
likely to care for verse which is not unworthy to be ranked with the
efforts of Calverley the immortal."--_The World_.

"Mr. Seaman manages his ingenious metres with unfailing skill."--_The
Athenæum_.

"A genial cynic with a genuine smack of Bon Gaultier."--_St. James's
Gazette_.

"The humour is bright and spontaneous."--_The Times_.

"Mr. Seaman's book is never slipshod; it has the neatness, the
precision, the sparkle of its Latin namesake."--_The Spectator_.


Tillers of the Sand

  SMITH, ELDER & CO., London. 3s. 6d.

"In the political sphere Mr. Seaman is at present without a
rival."--_The Globe_.

"Taken as a whole, we are much mistaken if any better volume of
political verse has made its appearance since the days of the
_Rolliad_ and the _Anti-Jacobin_."--_The World_.

"The best of the satirists on the other side is Mr. Owen Seaman, who
has touched off some of the weaknesses of the late government with
very happy and caustic humour."--_The Spectator_.

"Mr. Seaman is own brother to Calverley, and in modern times there has
been nothing so good of its sort as 'Tillers of the Sand.'... Mr.
Seaman proves himself so brilliant a jester that it needs must be he
takes the jester's privilege of offending no one."--_The Speaker_.

"One of the most accomplished writers of occasional verse
to-day."--_Bookman_.

"It is all so good that passages are hard to choose."--_Scotsman_.

"The author's rare quality--a capacity for satirizing one's political
opponents with a wit that leaves no wound."--Mr. JAMES PAYN in _The
Illustrated London News_.

"Brilliant and inimitable."--_Chicago Daily News_.


In Cap and Bells

  _Fifth Edition._
  Price 3s. 6d. _net._ Fcap. 8vo. Price $1.25.

"Here is no shouting, no banging of the bauble. The form of phrase,
the inflexion of voice, the dancing light of humour, make up the
motley which is the true jester's 'only wear'; and under his flashes
of merriment is a sober, sound philosophy. This, after all, is the
only kind of humour that lasts ... it is easy to appreciate, difficult
to acquire; and Mr. Owen Seaman, having acquired it with all the
felicity of good humour and art, stands practically alone among the
humourists of the hour.... His technical quality seems to strengthen
with every new volume."--Mr. ARTHUR WAUGH in _The St. James'
Gazette_.

"Clean laughter, and scholarly wit; polished metre, and humorous
phrase--these are to me the essential characteristics for which I am
invariably glad to read Mr. Owen Seaman."--Mr. THEODORE COOK in
_Literature_.

"The brilliant author of 'Cap and Bells' assumes, before the eyes of a
later generation, the mantle of Crawley, and does the same sort of
work more felicitously still."--_The Speaker_.

"At the end of the volume Mr. Seaman gives agreeable evidence that, in
the domain of memorial and complimentary verse, he has the knack of
combining felicity of phrase with a wholesome avoidance alike of
adulation and excess. The 'In Memoriam' lines to Lewis Carroll, with
the graceful reference to Sir John Tenniel, are particularly
happy."--_The Spectator_.

"Calverley had not, or did not show in his verses, Mr. Seaman's
critical acuteness and depth.... As a critic in the form of parody,
Mr. Seaman is without a rival.... Of his serious poems an ode to Queen
Wilhelmina is a very graceful accomplishment of a difficult
task."--Mr. G. S. STREET in _The Pall Mall Magazine_.

"Mr. Seaman is what we may call a critic of mannerisms, and a very
keen critic to boot. His is a useful, not a merely destructive,
function. He is no wanton debaser of the poetic currency. One might
rather call him a touchstone of true merit in poetry."--_Daily
Chronicle_.

"A new volume from the pen of Mr. Owen Seaman must needs be welcome.
He is the most accomplished versifier among all our jesters."--_The
Globe_.

"The parodies in Mr. Seaman's new volume are wonderful examples of
this difficult art; the Stephen Phillips, the Alfred Austin, the
Watts-Dunton, and the George Meredith are faultless."--_Academy_.

"Mr. Owen Seaman has already made his reputation as, perhaps, the
surest modern poet to make you laugh, and the nature of his new
collection of copies of verse cannot be better described than by
saying that it is well worthy of his hand.... The book is heartsome
and delightful all through."--_The Scotsman_.

"The present vogue of Mr. Owen Seaman's delightful parodies is very
great."--_Liverpool Courier_.


JOHN LANE: The Bodley Head, London & New York.

       *       *       *       *       *




Transcriber Notes

Typographical inconsistencies have been changed and are listed below.

Hyphenation standardized and is also listed below.

Archaic and variable spelling is preserved.

Author's punctuation style is preserved, including some hyphenated
words that are integral to a poem.

Passages in italics indicated by _underscores_.

Passages in bold indicated by =equal signs=.


Transcriber Changes

The following changes were made to the original text:

  Page 22: Was 'bellettrist' ('Heed not =belletrist= jargon.')

  Page 45: Was 'lachrimal' (Year that has painfully tickled the
           =lachrymal= nerves of the Muses)

  Page 84: Added semi-colon after 'Pyrrhics' (Broke out in unexpected
           =Pyrrhics;=)

  Page 88: Was 'applys' and 'precison' (Mr. Seaman cracks the whip
           with consummate skill, and =applies= it with such naughty
           =precision=, that even his victims must find it difficult
           to withhold their admiration.)

  Page 89: Changed to single quotes (in modern times there has been
           nothing so good of its sort as ='Tillers of the Sand.'=)

  Advertisements: Changed to single quotes (the dancing light of
                  humour, make up the motley which is the true
                  jester's ='only wear'=; and under his flashes of
                  merriment is a sober, sound philosophy.)

  Advertisements: Was 'Arthuh' (His technical quality seems to
                  strengthen with every new volume."--Mr. =ARTHUR=
                  WAUGH in _The St. James' Gazette_.)






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