Verse and Worse
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AUTHOR'S PREFACE
With guilty, conscience-stricken tears,I offer up these rhymes of mineTo children of maturer years(From Seventeen to Ninety-nine).A special solace may they beIn days of second infancy.The frenzied mother who observesThis volume in her offspring's hand,And trembles for the darling's nerves,Must please to clearly understand,If baby suffers by and byThe Publisher's at fault, not I!But should the little brat survive,And fatten on this style of Rhyme,To raise a Heartless Home and thriveThrough a successful life of crime,The Publisher would have you seeThat I am to be thanked, not he!Fond parent, you whose children areOf tender age (from two to eight),Pray keep this little volume farFrom reach of such, and relegateMy verses to an upper shelf;Where you may study them yourself.FOREWORD
The Press may pass my Verses byWith sentiments of indignation,And say, like Greeks of old, that ICorrupt the Youthful Generation;I am unmoved by taunts like these —(And so, I think, was Socrates).Howe'er the Critics may revile,I pick no journalistic quarrels,Quite realising that my StyleMakes up for any lack of Morals;For which I feel no shred of shame —(And Byron would have felt the same).I don't intend a Child to readThese lines, which are not for the Young;For, if I did, I should indeedFeel fully worthy to be hung.(Is 'hanged' the perfect tense of 'hang'?Correct me, Mr. Andrew Lang!)O Young of Heart, tho' in your prime,By you these verses may be seen!Accept the Moral with the Rhyme,And try to gather what I mean.But, if you can't, it won't hurt me!(And Browning would, I know, agree.)Be reassured, I have not gotThe style of Stephen Phillips' heroes,Nor Henry Jones's pow'r of Plot,Nor wit like Arthur Wing Pinero's!(If so, I should not waste my timeIn writing you this sort of rhyme.)I strive to paint things as they Are,Of Realism the true Apostle;All flow'ry metaphors I bar,Nor call the homely thrush a 'throstle.'Such synonyms would make me smile.(And so they would have made Carlyle.)My Style may be, at times, I own,A trifle cryptic or abstruse;In this I do not stand alone,And need but mention, in excuse,A thousand world-familiar names,From Meredith to Henry James.From these my fruitless fancy roamsTo Aesop's or La Fontaine's Fable,From Doyle's or Hemans' 'Stately Ho(l)mes,'To t'other of The Breakfast Table;Like Galahad, I wish (in vain)'My wit were as the wit of Twain!Had I but Whitman's rugged skill,(And managed to escape the Censor),The Accuracy of a Mill,The Reason of a Herbert Spencer,The literary talents evenOf Sidney Lee or Leslie Stephen,The pow'r of Patmore's placid pen,Or Watson's gift of execration,The sugar of Le Gallienne,Or Algernon's alliteration,One post there is I'd not be lost in,– Tho' I might find it most ex-Austin'!Some day, if I but study hard,The public, vanquished by my pen, 'llAcclaim me as a Minor Bard,Like Norman Gale or Mrs. Meynell;And listen to my lyre a-ripplingImperial banjo-spasms like Kipling.Were I, like him, a syndicate,Which publishers would put their trust in;A Walter Pater up-to-date,Or flippant scholar like Augustine;With pen as light as lark or squirrel,I'd love to kipple, pate and birrell.So don't ignore me. If you should,'Twill touch me to the very heart oh!To be as much misunderstoodAs once was Andrea del Sarto;Unrecognised, to toil away,Like Millet, – (not, of course, Millais).And, pray, for Morals do not lookIn this unique agglomeration,– This unpretentious little bookOf Infelicitous Quotation.I deem you foolish if you do,(And Mr. Arnold thinks so, too).PART I
THE BABY'S BAEDEKER
I
ABROAD
Abroad is where we tourists spend,In divers unalluring ways,The brief occasional week-end,Or annual Easter holidays;And earn the (not ill-founded) chargeOf being lunatics at large.Abroad, we lose our self-respect;Wear whiskers; let our teeth protrude;Consider any garb correct,And no display of temper rude;Descending, when we cross the foam,To depths we dare not plumb at home.(Small wonder that the natives gaze,With hostile eyes, at foreign freaks,Who patronise their Passion-plays,In lemon-coloured chessboard breeks;An op'ra-glass about each neck,And on each head a cap of check.)Abroad, where needy younger sons,When void the parent's treasure-chest,Take refuge from insistent duns,At urgent relatives' request;To live upon their slender wits,Or sums some maiden-aunt remits.Abroad, whence (with a wisdom rare)Regardless of nostalgic pains,The weary New York millionaireRetires with his oil-gotten gains,And learns how deep a pleasure 'tisTo found our Public Libraries.For ours is the primeval clan,From which all lesser lights descend;Is Crockett not our countryman?And call we not Corelli friend?Our brotherhood has bred the brainWhose offspring bear the brand of Caine.Tho' nowadays we seldom hearMiss Proctor, who mislaid a chord,Or Tennyson, the poet peer,Who came into the garden, Mord;Tho' Burns be dead, and Keats unread,We have a prophet still in Stead.And so we stare, with nose in air;And speak in condescending tone,Of foreigners whose climes compareSo favourably with our own;And aliens we cannot applaudWho call themselves At Home Abroad!II
UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
This is the Country of the Free,The Cocktail and the Ten Cent Chew;Where you're as good a man as me,And I'm a better man than you!(O Liberty, how free we make!Freedom, what liberties we take!)'Tis here the startled tourist meets,'Mid clanging of a thousand bells,The railways running through the streets,Skyscraping flats and vast hotels,Where rest, on the resplendent floors,The necessary cuspidors.And here you may encounter tooThe pauper immigrants in shoals,The Swede, the German, and the Jew,The Irishman, who rules the pollsAnd is employed to keep the peace,A venal and corrupt police.They are so busy here, you know,They have no time at all for play;Each morning to their work they goAnd stay there all the livelong day;Their dreams of happiness dependOn making more than they can spend.The ladies of this land are allDeveloped to a pitch sublime,Some inches over six foot tall,With perfect figures all the time.(For further notice of their looksSee Mr. Dana Gibson's books.)And, if they happen to possessSufficient balance at the bank,They have the chance of saying 'Yes!'To needy foreigners of rank;The future dukes of all the earthAre half American by birth.MORALA 'dot' combining cash with charmsIs worth a thousand coats-of-arms.III
GREAT BRITAIN
The British are a chilly race.The Englishman is thin and tall;He screws an eyeglass in his face,And talks with a reluctant drawl.'Good Gwacious! This is doosid slow!By Jove! Haw demmy! Don't-cher-know!'The Englishwoman ev'rywhereA meed of admiration wins;She has a crown of silken hair,And quite the loveliest of skins.(Go forth and seek an English maid,Your trouble will be well repaid.)Where Britain's banner is unfurledThere's room for nothing else beside,She owns one-quarter of the world,And still she is not satisfied.The Briton thinks himself, by birth,To be the lord of all the earth.Some call his manners wanting, orHis sense of humour poor, and yetWhatever he is striving forHe as a rule contrives to get;His methods may be much to blame,But he arrives there just the same.MORALIf you can get your wish, you bet itDoesn't much matter how you get it!IV
SCOTLAND
In Scotland all the people wearRed hair and freckles, and one seesThe men in women's dresses there,With stout, décolleté, low-necked knees.('Eblins ye dinna ken, I doot,We're unco guid, so hoot, mon, hoot!')They love 'ta whuskey' and 'ta Kirk';I don't know which they like the most.They aren't the least afraid of work;No sense of humour can they boast;And you require an axe to coaxThe canny Scot to see your jokes.They play an instrument they callThe bagpipes; and the sound of theseIs reminiscent of the squallOf infant pigs attacked by bees;Music that might drive cats awayOr make reluctant chickens lay.MORALWear kilts, and, tho' men look askance,Go out and give your knees a chance.V
IRELAND
The Irishman is never quiteContented with his little lot;He's ever thirsting for a fight,A grievance he has always got;And all his energy is bentOn trying not to pay his rent.He lives upon a frugal fare(The few potatoes that he digs),And hospitably loves to shareHis bedroom with his wife and pigs;But cannot settle even here,And gets evicted once a year.In order to amuse himself,At any time when things are slack,He takes his gun down from the shelfAnd shoots a landlord in the back;If he is lucky in the chase,He may contrive to bag a brace.MORALProcure a grievance and a gunAnd you can have no end of fun.VI
WALES
The natives of the land of WalesAre not a very truthful lot,And the imagination failsTo paint the language they have got;Bettws-y-coed-llan-dud-nod-Dolgelly-rhiwlas-cwn-wm-dod!MORALIf you must talk, then do it, pray,In an intelligible way.VII
CHINA
The Chinaman from early youthIs by his wise preceptors taughtTo have no dealings with the Truth,In fact, romancing is his 'forte.'In juggling words he takes the prize,By the sheer beauty of his lies.For laundrywork he has a knack;He takes in shirts and makes them blue;When he omits to send them backHe takes his customers in too.He must be ranked in the 'élite'Of those whose hobby is deceit.For ladies 'tis the fashion hereTo pinch their feet and make them small,Which, to the civilised idea,Is not a proper thing at all.Our modern Western woman's tasteIn pinching leans towards the waist.The Chinese Empire is the fieldWhere foreign missionaries go;A poor result their labours yield,And they have little fruit to show;For, if you would convert Wun Lung,You have to catch him very young.The Chinaman has got a creedAnd a religion of his own,And would be much obliged indeedIf you could leave his soul alone;And he prefers, which may seem odd,His own to other people's god.Yet still the missionary triesTo point him out his wickedness,Until the badgered natives rise, —And there's one missionary less!Then foreign Pow'rs step in, you see,And ask for an indemnity.MORALAdhere to facts, avoid romance,And you a clergyman may be;To lie is wrong, except perchanceIn matters of Diplomacy.And, when you start out to convert,Make certain that you don't get hurt!VIII
FRANCE
The natives here remark 'Mon Dieu!''Que voulez-vous?' 'Comment ça va?''Sapristi! Par exemple! Un peu!''Tiens donc! Mais qu'est-ce que c'est que ça?'They shave one portion of their dogs,And live exclusively on frogs.They get excited very quick,And crowds will gather before longIf you should stand and wave your stickAnd shout, 'À bas le Presidong!'Still more amusing would it beTo say, 'Conspuez la Patrie!'The French are so polite, you know,They take their hats off very well,And, should they tread upon your toe,Remark, 'Pardon, Mademoiselle!'And you would gladly bear the painTo see them make that bow again.Their ladies too have got a wayWhich even curates can't resist;'Twould make an Alderman feel gayOr soothe a yellow journalist;And then the things they say are soExtremely – well, in fact, – you know!MORALThe closest scrutiny can findNo morals here of any kind.IX
GERMANY
The German is a stolid soul,And finds best suited to his tasteA pipe with an enormous bowl,A fraulein with an ample waist;He loves his beer, his Kaiser, and(Donner und blitz!) his Fatherland!He's perfectly contented ifHe listens in the Op'ra-houseTo Wagner's well-concealed 'motif,'Or waltzes of the nimble Strauss;And all discordant bands he sendsAbroad, to soothe his foreign friends.When he is glad at anythingHe cheers like a dyspeptic goat,'Hoch! hoch!' You'd think him sufferingFrom some affection of the throat.A disagreeable noise, 'tis true,But pleases him and don't hurt you!MORALA glass of lager underneath the bough,A long 'churchwarden' and an ample 'frau'Beside me sitting in a Biergarten,Ach! Biergarten were paradise enow!X
HOLLAND
This country is extremely flat,Just like your father's head, and wereIt not for dykes and things like thatThere would not be much country there,For, if these banks should broken be,What now is land would soon be sea.So, any child who glory seeks,And in a dyke observes a hole,Must hold his finger there for weeks,And keep the water from its goal,Until the local plumbers come,Or other persons who can plumb.The Hollanders have somehow gotThe name of Dutch (why, goodness knows!),But Mrs. Hollander is notA 'duchess' as you might suppose;Mynheer Von Vanderpump is muchMore used to style her his 'Old Dutch.'Their cities' names are somewhat odd,But much in vogue with golfing menWho miss a 'put' or slice a sod,(Whose thoughts I would not dare to pen),'Oh, Rotterdam!' they can exclaim,And blamelessly resume the game.The Dutchman's dress is very neat;He minds his little flock of goatsIn cotton blouse, and on his feetHe dons a pair of wooden boats.(He evidently does not trustThose dykes I mentioned not to bust).He has the reputation tooOf being what is known as 'slim,'Which merely means he does to youWhat you had hoped to do to him;He has a business head, that's all,And takes some beating, does Oom Paul.MORALAvoid a country where the seaMay any day drop in to tea,Rememb'ring that, at golf, one touchOf bunker makes the whole world Dutch!XI
ICELAND
The climate is intensely cold;Wild curates would not drag me there;Not tho' they brought great bags of gold,And piled them underneath my chair.If twenty bishops bade me go,I should decidedly say, 'No!'MORALIf ev'ry man has got his price,As generally is agreed,You will, by taking my advice,Let yours be very large indeed.Corruption is not nice at all,Unless the bribe be far from small.XII
ITALY
In Italy the sky is blue;The native loafs and lolls about,He's nothing in the world to do,And does it fairly well, no doubt;(Ital-i-ans are disinclinedTo honest work of any kind).A light Chianti wine he drinks,And fancies it extremely good;(It tastes like Stephens' Blue-black Inks); —While macaroni is his food.(I think it must be rather hardTo eat one's breakfast by the yard).And, when he leaves his country forSome northern climate, 'tis his dreamTo be an organ grinder, orRetail bacilli in ice-cream.(The French or German student termsThese creatures 'Parisites' or 'Germs.')Sometimes an anarchist is he,And wants to slay a king or queen;So with some dynamite, may be,Concocts a murderous machine;'Here goes!' he shouts, 'For Freedom's sake!'Then blows himself up by mistake.Naples and Florence both repayA visit, and, if fortune takesYour toddling little feet that way,Do stop a moment at The Lakes.While, should you go to Rome, I hopeYou'll leave your card upon the Pope.MORALDon't work too hard, but use a wise discretion;Adopt the least laborious profession.Don't be an anarchist, but, if you must,Don't let your bombshell prematurely bust.XIII
JAPAN
Inhabitants of far JapanAre happy as the day is longTo sit behind a paper fanAnd sing a kind of tuneless song,Desisting, ev'ry little while,To have a public bath, or smile.The members of the fairer sexAre clad in a becoming dress,One garment reaching from their necksDown to the ankles more or less;Behind each dainty ear they wearA cherry-blossom in their hair.If 'Imitation's flattery'(We learn it at our mother's lap),A flatterer by birth must beOur clever little friend the Jap,Who does whatever we can do,And does it rather better too.MORALBe happy all the time, and planTo wash as often as you can.XIV
PORTUGAL
You are requested, if you please,To note that here a people livesReferred to as the Portuguese;A fact which naturally givesThe funny man a good excuseTo call his friend a Portugoose.MORALAvoid the obvious, if you can,And never be a funny man.XV
RUSSIA
The Russian Empire, as you see,Is governed by an Autocrat,A sort of human target heFor anarchists to practise at;And much relieved most people areNot to be lodging with the Czar.The Russian lets his whiskers grow,Smokes cigarettes at meal-times, andImbibes more 'vodki' than 'il faut';A habit which (I understand)Enables him with ease to tellHis name, which nobody could spell.The climate here is cold, with snow,And you go driving in a sleigh,With bells and all the rest, you know,Just like a Henry Irving play;While, all around you, glare the eyesOf secret officers and spies!The Russian prisons have no drains,No windows or such things as that;You have no playthings there but chains,And no companion but a rat;When once behind the dungeon door,Your friends don't see you any more.I further could enlarge, 'tis true,But fear my trembling pen confines;I have no wish to travel toSiberia and work the mines.(In Russia you must write with care,Or the police will take you there.)MORALIf you hold morbid views aboutA monarch's premature decease,You only need a – Hi! Look out!Here comes an agent of police!…(In future my address will be'Siberia, Cell 63.')XVI
SPAIN
'Tis here the Spanish onion grows,And they eat garlic all the day,So, if you have a tender nose,'Tis best to go the other way,Or else you may discern, at length,The fact that 'Onion is strength.'The chestnuts flourish in this land,Quite good to eat, as you will find,For they are not, you understand,The ancient after-dinner kindThat Yankees are accustomed toFrom Mr. Chauncey M. Depew.The Spanish lady, by the bye,Is an alluring person whoHas got a bright and flashing eye,And knows just how to use it too;It's quite a treat to see her meetThe proud hidalgo on the street.He wears a sort of soft felt hat,A dagger, and a cloak, you know,Just like the wicked villains thatWe met in plays of long ago,Who sneaked about with aspect glum,Remarking, 'Ha! A time will come!'His blood, of blue cerulean hue,Runs in his veins like liquid fire,And he can be most rude if youShould rob him of his heart's desire;'Caramba!' he exclaims, and whack!His dagger perforates your back!If you should care to patroniseA bull-fight, as you will no doubt,You'll see a horse with blinded eyesBe very badly mauled about;By such a scene a weak insideIs sometimes rather sorely tried.And, if the bull is full of fun,The horse is generally gored,So then they fetch another one,Or else the first one is encored;The humour of the sport, of course,Is not so patent to the horse.MORALBe kind to ev'ry bull you meet,Remember how the creature feels;Don't wink at ladies in the street;And don't make speeches after meals;And lastly, I need not explain,If you're a horse, don't go to Spain.XVII
SWITZERLAND
This atmosphere is pure ozone!To climb the hills you promptly start;Unless you happen to be proneTo palpitations of the heart;In which case swarming up the AlpsBrings on a bad attack of palps.The nicest method is to stayQuite comfortably down below,And, from the steps of your chalet,Watch other people upwards go.Then you can buy an alpenstock,And scratch your name upon a rock.MORALDon't do fatiguing things which youCan pay another man to do.Let friends assume (they may be wrong),That you each year ascend Mong Blong.Some things you can pretend you've done,And climbing up the Alps is one.XVIII
TURKEY
The Sultan of the Purple EastIs quite a cynic, in his way,And really doesn't mind the leastHis nickname of 'Abdul the – ' (Nay!I might perhaps come in for blameIf I divulged this monarch's name.)The Turk is such a kindly man,But his ideas of sport are crude;He to the poor ArmenianIs not intentionally rude,But still it is his heartless habitTo treat him as we treat the rabbit.If he wants bracing up a bit,His pleasing little custom isTo take a hatchet and commitA series of atrocities.I should not fancy, after dark,To meet him, say, in Regent's Park.A deeply married man is he,'Early and often' is his rule;He practises polygamyDirectly after leaving school,And so arranges that his wivesLive happy but secluded lives.If they attend a public place,They have to do so in disguise,And so conceal one-half their faceThat nothing but a pair of eyesSuggests the hidden charm that lurksBeneath the veils of lady Turks.Then too in Turkey all the menSmoke water-pipes and cross their legs;They watch their harem as a henThat guards her first attempt at eggs.(If you don't know what harems are,Just run and ask your dear papa.)MORALWives of great men oft remind usWe should make our wives sublime,But the years advancing find usVainly working over-time.We could minimise our workBy the methods of the Turk.XIX
DREAMLAND
Here you will see strange happeningsWith absolutely placid eyes;If all your uncles sprouted wingsYou would not feel the least surprise;The oddest things that you can doDon't seem a bit absurd to you.You go (in Dreamland) to a ball,And suddenly are shocked to findThat you have nothing on at all, —But somehow no one seems to mind;And, naturally, you don't care,If they can bear what you can bare!Then, in a moment, you're pursuedBy engines on a railway track!Your legs are tied, your feet are glued,The train comes snorting down your back!One last attempt at flight you makeAnd so (in bed) perspiring wake.You feel so free from weight of caresThat, if the staircase you should climb,You gaily mount, not single stairs,But whole battalions at a time;(My metaphor is mixed, may be,I quote from Shakespeare, as you see).If you should eat too much, you pay(In dreams) the penalty for this;A nightmare carries you awayAnd drops you down a precipice!Down! down! until, with sudden smack,You strike the mattress with your back.MORALAt meals decline to be a beast;'Too much is better than a feast.'XX
STAGELAND
The customs of this land have allBeen published in a bulky tome.The author is a man they callJerome K. Jerome K. Jerome.So, lest on his preserves I poach,This subject I refuse to broach.MORALThe moral here is plain to see.If true the hackneyed witticismWhich stamps OriginalityAs 'undetected plagiarism,'What a vocation I have miss'dAs undetected plagiarist!XXI
LOVERLAND
This is the land where minor bardsAnd other lunatics repair,To live in houses made of cards,Or build their castles in the air;To feed on hope, and idly dreamThat things are really what they seem.The natives are a motley lot,Of ev'ry age and creed and race,But each inhabitant has gotThe same expression on his face;They look, when this their features fills,Like angels with internal chills.The lover sits, the livelong day,Quite inarticulate of speech;He simply brims with things to say;Alas! the words he cannot reach,And, silent, lets occasion pass,Feeling a fulminating ass.It is the lady lover's wontTo blush, and look demure or coy,To say, 'You mustn't!' and, 'Oh! don't!'Or, 'Please leave off, you naughty boy!'(But this, of course, is just her way,She wouldn't wish you to obey.)The lover, in a trembling voice,Demands the hand of his lovee,And begs the lady of his choiceTo share some cottage-by-the-sea;With her a prison would be nice,A coal-cellar a Paradise!'Love in a cottage' sounds so well;But oh, my too impatient bride,No drainage and a constant smellOf something being over-friedIs not the sort of atmosphereThat makes for wedded bliss, my dear.And when the bills are rather high,And when the money's rather low,See poor Virginia sit and sigh,And ask why Paul must grumble so!He slams the door and strides about,And, through the window, Love creeps out.'Tis said that Cupid blinds our sightWith fire of passion from above,Nor ever bids us see arightThe many faults in those we love;Ah no! I deem it otherwise,For lovers have the clearest eyes.They see the faults, the failures, andThe great temptations, and they know,Although they cannot understand,That they would have the loved one so.Believe me, Love is never blind,His smiling eyes are wise and kind.Tho' lovers quarrel, yet, I ween,'Tis but to make it up again;The sunshine seems the more sereneThat follows after April rain;And love should lead, if love be true,To perfect understanding too.If in our hearts this love beats strong,We shall not ever seek to earnForgiveness for some fancied wrong,Nor need to pardon in return;But learn this lesson as we live,'To understand is to forgive.'And all you little girls and boysWill find this out yourselves, some day,When you have done with childish toysAnd put your infant books away.Ah! then I pray that hand-in-handYou tread the paths of Loverland.MORAL