The Motley Muse Part 1

The Motley Muse.

by Harry Graham.

FOREWORD

THE WORLD WE LAUGH IN!

['Sadness, once a favourite pose of poets, is no longer fas.h.i.+onable. Nowadays melancholy people are looked upon as depressing.'--The _Gentlewoman_.]

Bygone bards in baleful ballads would betoken Worlds of wretchedness and globes compact of gloom; Pensive poets of the past have sung or spoken Of the misery of mortals' daily doom, Of the hearts that are as hard as something oaken, Of the blossoms that are blighted ere they bloom, Of the ease with which a lover's vows are broken, And the terrors of the tomb!

Now no longer 'tis the minstrel's mawkish fas.h.i.+on To narrate a tale of melancholy woe, Of some wight whose face was haggard, wan, and ashen, And who languished in the days of long ago, Who adored, with pure but unrequited pa.s.sion, And a heart that was as soft as any dough, A divine but unsusceptible Circa.s.sian Who continued to say 'No'!

For to-day our lays are light, our sonnets sprightly, We adopt a tone inspiriting and blithe; We can treat the saddest subjects fairly brightly, And we never make our fellow-creatures writhe.

We regard all signs of sorrow as unsightly And as dreary as the Esplanade at Hythe, And in seas of lyric joy we swim as lightly As a saith[1] else a lythe[2])!

And a poet who the populace enrages By an out-of-date endeavour to combine The dispiriting solemnity of sages With the quill-work of the fretful porcupine, Is considered so unworthy of his wages That the public will not read a single line, And his gems will never sparkle in the pages Of a volume such as mine!

RHYMES FOR THE TIMES

'WHAT'S IN A NAME?'

[Lord Lincolns.h.i.+re pointed out that Britain's glory has always depended very largely upon men whose names suggest no historical a.s.sociations; upon the Browns and the McGhees, as well as upon the Willoughbys, the Talbots, and the Cecils.]

In praise of many a n.o.ble name, Let lesser poets chaunt a paean; The deathless fame will I proclaim Of others, more plebeian.

Let minstrels sing of Montagues, Of Scots and Brabazons and Percys, While lovers of the Muse (or Meux) On Lambtons base their verses.

My lyre, which neither mocks nor mimics, Shall laud the humbler patronymics.

Though Talbots may have led the van, And fought the battles of the nation, 'Twas but a simple Elliman Invented embrocation!

Though Churchills many a triumph won, And Stanleys made their world adore them, 'Twas Pickford--ay, and Paterson-- Who 'carried' all before them!

Not twice, in our rough island story, Was Smith synonymous with glory!

The sn.o.b may sn.i.g.g.e.r, if he likes; But on the rolls of Greater Britain The famous name of William Sikes Immortally is written; And when men speak, in sneering tones, Of Brown, Jones, Robinson (They do so!), I always cite _John_ Brown, _Burne_-Jones And Robinson _Caruso_, And thus, with bright examples, teach 'em That Beecham's quite as good as Beauchamp!

n.o.bODY'S DARLING!

['n.o.body loves millionaires any more.'--Mr. ZIMMERMAN.]

Time was when Society wooed me, The populace fawned at my feet; Men petted and praised and pursued me, My social success was complete.

The pick of the Peerage, with smiles on their faces, Would sell me their family portraits and places.

With stairs of pure marble below me, My stand as a host I would take, While guests (who, of course, didn't know me) The hand of my butler would shake, Averring, in phrases delightfully hearty, How much they enjoyed his agreeable party.

I gave away libraries gratis, Each village and town to adorn, Till with the expression '_Jam satis!_'

Lord Rosebery laughed them to scorn; And soon Mr. Gosse and the groundlings were snarling At one who must style himself n.o.body's Darling!

[Ill.u.s.tration]

And now when I purchase their pictures, Or bid for some family seat, Men pa.s.s most disparaging strictures, Discussing my action with heat; While newspapers term it a 'public disaster'

Each time I endeavour to buy an Old Master!

The country I rob of its treasures (By carting its ruins away!); I lessen all popular pleasures By spoiling the market, they say; And so they invoke Mr. George's a.s.sistance To tax the poor plutocrat out of existence!

ROSES ALL THE WAY

['Mr. Frank Lascelles left London yesterday for Calcutta. As he entered the railway carriage at Victoria, Lady Jane Kenney-Herbert handed him a basket of roses.'--The _Times_.]

Each year in vain I take the train To Dinard, Trouville or Le Touquet; No lady fair is ever there To speed me with a bouquet; No maiden on my brow imposes A snood of Gloire de Dijon roses!

No purple phlox adorns the locks Of scanty hair that fringe my cranium; No garlands deck my shapely neck With jasmine or geranium.

I travel, like a social pariah, Without a single calceolaria!

Though up and down I 'train' to town, Each day, with fellow-clerk or broker, No female hand has ever planned To trim my third-cla.s.s 'smoker,'

To wreathe the rack with scarlet dahlias, Or drape the seats with pink azaleas!

Let others envy wealthy men --The Rothschilds, Vanderbilts or Ca.s.sels-- I'd much prefer, I must aver, Like lucky Mr. Lascelles, To travel well supplied with posies Of (on the 'Underground') _Tube_-roses!

[Ill.u.s.tration]

THE TRIUMPH OF JAM

(_With shamefaced apologies to the author of a beautiful poem_)

[The _Daily Mirror_, in a leading article, deplored the fact that 'roly-poly' pudding, otherwise known as 'jam-roll,' was not to be obtained at fas.h.i.+onable West End restaurants.]

Although our wives deride for ever, Though cooks grow captious or gaze aghast (Cooks, swift to sunder, to slash and sever The ties that bind us to things long past), We will say as much as a man might wish Whose whole life's love comes up on a dish, Which he never again may feast on, and never Shall taste of more while the ages last.

I shall never again be friends with 'rolies,'

I shall lack sweet 'polies' where, thick like glue, The jam in some secret Holy of Holies Crouches and cowers from mortal view.

There are tastes that a tongue would fain forget, There are savours the soul must e'er regret; My tongue how hungry, how starved my soul is!

I shall miss 'jam-pudding' my whole life through!

The gleam and the glamour, glimmering through it, The steam that rises, to greet the sun, The fragrant fumes of the jam and suet That mix and mingle, to blend as one; The white-capped cook who stirs so hard, To twine the treacle and knead the lard, To soak and season, to blend and brew it-- These things are over, and no more done!

I must go _my_ ways (others shall follow), Filling myself, till I rise replete, With fugitive things not good to swallow, Drink as my friends drink, eat what they eat; But if I could hear that sound (O squis.h.!.+) Of the 'roly-poly' leaving its dish, My heart would be lighter, my life less hollow, At sight of my childhood's favourite sweet!

Ah, why do I live in an age that winces At 'shape' (blanc-mange) of a bygone brand, At tripe and trotters, at stews and minces, At hash or at haggis, heavy in hand?

Come lunch, come dinner, no word is said Of the jam that in suet so veils its head.

I shall never eat it again, for at Princes'