Rhymes of the East and Re-collected Verses Part 9

IN SEVERAL KEYS

No. 2

THE BALLAD OF MORBID MOTHERS

Why do you sit in the churchyard weeping?

Why do you cling to the dear old graves, When the dim, drear mists of the dusk are creeping Out of the marshes in wan, white waves?

Darling, I know you're a slave to sorrow; Dearie, I _know_ that the world is cruel; But _you'll_ be in bed with a cold to-morrow, _I_ shall be running upstairs with gruel.

Why do you weep on a tombstone, Mammy, Sobbing alone in the drizzling sleet, When the chill mists rise, and the wind strikes clammy?

Think of your bones, and your poor old feet!

Darling, I know that you feel lugubrious; Dearie, I _know_ you must work this off; But graveyards are not, as a rule, salubrious, Whence the expression, a 'churchyard cough.'

[_The Old Lady explains her eccentric behaviour._]

Why do I ululate, dear my dearie, Coiled on a nastily mildewed tomb, When the horned owl hoots, and the world is weary, Weary of sorrow, and swamped in gloom?

Childie my child, 'tis a cogent question; Dearie my dear, if you wish to know, Tis not that I suffer from indigestion, But that the Public ordains it so.

Babies, and Aunties, and dying brothers, Boom for a season, as 'loves' may part; But the old shop-ballad of Morbid Mothers Dives to the depths of the Public's heart.

Dearie, with booms, at the best, precarious, All but the permanent needs must fail; And Childie, if Mammy became hilarious, Mammy would never command a sale.

THE STORY OF RUD.

Once for a tight little Island, fonder of ha'pence than kicks, Rud., a maker of verses, sang of an Empire of Bricks, Sang of the Sons of that Empire--told them they came of the Blood-- Rubbing it under their noses. _Read ye the Story of Rud_!

Pleased was the Public to hear it--rose in their hundreds to sing-- Swallowed it, chewed it, and gurgled: 'Verily, this is the thing!

Thus do we wallop our foemen--roll 'em away in the mud-- This is the People that _we_ are. Glory and laurels for Rud.!'

Later he pictured a Panic--later he pictured a Scare, Pictured the burning of coast towns--skies in a reddening glare-- Pictured the Mafficking Million--collared, abortive, alone-- Out of the duty he owed them, pictured them down to the bone.

Sick was the Public to read it--pa.s.sed it along to 'the Sports'-- 'Fools in the full-flannelled breeches, oafs in the muddy-patched shorts'-- Loafers and talkers and writers, furtively whispering low-- '_Say_ that it's like 'em--it _may_ be--n.o.body ever need know.

'Rud.,--would he drive us to Barracks--make of us militant hordes-- Broke to the spit of the pom-pom--trained to the flashing of swords?-- Pooh! It is _these_ that he goes for--Sport is the bubble he p.r.i.c.ks-- Doubt not but _we_ are The People--Bricks of an Empire of Bricks!'

What of that maker of verses? Did he not answer the call: 'Loafers and talkers and writers, children or knaves are ye all; Look at the lines ere ye quote them: read, ere ye cackle as geese!'?

Nay. But he pa.s.sed from The People--left them to stew in their grease.

But a hyphen-ish growl makes answer: 'Ye that would take from the whole The one line robbed of the context, nor win to the straight-set Goal, Is it thus ye will fend the warning--thus ye will move the shame From the Mob that watch by the thousand, to the dozens that play the game?

Still will ye pay at the turnstile--thronging the rope-ringed Match, Where the half-back fumbles the leather, or the deep-field b.u.t.ters the catch?

Will ye thank your G.o.ds (being 'umble) that the fool and the oaf are found In the field, at the goal or the wicket, and _not_ in the seats around?

_Not_ in the Sat.u.r.day Squallers--men of a higher grade-- That lay down a law they know not, of a game that they have not played?

Holding the folly of flannel, still will ye teach the Schools That Wisdom is dressed in shoddy, and how should the Wise be fools?

Not doubting but ye are The People--ye are the Sons of The Blood?

Loafers and talkers and writers,--_Read ye the Verses of Rud._!'

THE HAPPY ENDING

STANZAS WRITTEN IN DEJECTION

I am tired of the day with its profitless labours, And tired of the night with its lack of repose, I am sick of myself, my surroundings, and neighbours, Especially Aryan Brothers and crows; O land of illusory hope for the needy, O centre of soldiering, thirst, and shikar, When a broken-down exile begins to get seedy, What a beast of a country you are!

There are many, I know, that have honestly drawn a Most moving description of pleasures to win By the exquisite carnage of such of your fauna As Nature provides with a 'head' or a 'skin'; I know that a pig is magnificent sticking; But good as you are in the matter of sports, When a person's alive, so to put it, and kicking, You're a brute when a man's out of sorts.

For the moment he feels the effects of the weather-- A mild go of fever--a touch of the sun-- He arrives with a jerk at the end of his tether, And finds your attractions a bit overdone; Impatiently conscious of boredom and worry, He sits in his misery, scowling at grief, With a face like a pallid _rechauffee_ of curry, And a head like a lump of boiled beef.

I am sick of the day (as I happened to mention), And sick of the night (as I stated before), And it's oh, for the wings of a dove or a pension To carry me home to a happier sh.o.r.e!

And oh, to be off, homeward bound, on the briny, Away from the tropics--away from the heat, And to take off a shocking old hat to the Shiny, As I shake off her dust from my feet!

THE FINEST VIEW

Away, away! The plains of Ind Have set their victim free; I give my sorrows to the wind, My sun-hat to the sea; And, standing with a chosen few, I watch a dying glow, The pa.s.sing of the Finest View That all the world can show.

It would not fire an artist's eye, This View whereof I sing; Poets, no doubt, would pa.s.s it by As quite a common thing; The Tourist with belittling sniff Would find no beauties there-- He couldn't if he would, and if He could he wouldn't care.

Only for him that turns the back On dark and evil days It throws a glory down his track That sets his heart ablaze; A charm to make the wounded whole, Which wearied eyes may draw Luxuriously through the soul, Like c.o.c.ktails through a straw.

I have seen strong men moved to tears When gazing o'er the deep, Hard men, whom I have known for years, Nor dreamt that they could weep; Even myself, though stern and cold Beyond the common line, Cannot, for very joy, withhold The tribute of my brine.

Farewell, farewell, thou best of Views!

I leave thee to thy pain, And, while I have the power to choose, We shall not meet again; But, 'mid the scenes of joy and mirth, My fancies oft will turn Back to the Finest Sight on Earth, The Bombay Lights--_astern_!

HAVEN

Here, in mine old-time harbourage installed, Lulled by the murmurous hum of London's traffic To that full calm which may be justly called Seraphic,

I praise the G.o.ds; and vow, for my escape From the hard grip of premature Jehannun, One golden-tissued bottle of the grape Per annum.