The Battle of the Bays Part 6

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 Maenads, turning sprightlier toes, Enjoy a jauntier fling; With l.u.s.tier 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 reduit a l'etat 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 s.p.a.ce to spare.

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

Lengthways curtailed to her taste A tunic circ.u.mvents her waist, And soothly it is pa.s.sing 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-c.o.c.k.

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

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 a.s.sures 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!