The Motley Muse Part 3

[A well-known lady dog-fancier informed a representative of the _Daily Mirror_ that, in case of fire, she would most certainly save her dog rather than her husband.]

'Go! Sound the fire alarm!' she cried.

'My house is all ablaze inside!

'The flames are spreading far and wide; 'The air with smoke is laden!

'My darling's in an upper room!

'Oh, save him from a fiery tomb!'

Straight, as she spoke, through sparks and fume Came brave Lieutenant Sladen.

Quoth he: 'The horsed-escape is here, ma'am; 'We'll save your husband, never fear, ma'am!'

'My _husband_?' she replied. 'Nay, nay!

'Don't waste your time on _him_, I pray, 'But turn your thoughts without delay 'To things that really matter.

'For though my weaker-half's asleep, 'A faithful lap-dog, too, I keep, 'And if I hold the former cheap, 'I idolise the latter.

'Gladly, to save the best of bow-wows, 'I'd sacrifice,' she sobbed, 'my spou-ouse!

'How prettily my nose he licks!

'(I'm speaking of the dog) and p.r.i.c.ks 'His ears and barks, while as for tricks 'He never seems to tire, man!

'He'll balance sugar on his snout----'

From burning windows came a shout; Her husband suddenly leaned out And thus addressed the fireman: 'You've seen the sort of wife I cherish; 'Then be humane and--let me perish!'

ODE ON A DISTANT PROSPECT OF BOSTON SCHOOL

(_With apologies to Thomas Gray_)

[Lord Tankerville was reported to have removed his son from Eton and sent him to school at Boston, U.S.A., where he would be known as Charles Bennet and be free from 'the kowtowing of a sycophantic crowd of pseudo-aristocrats who lick the boots of our young n.o.blemen' at English schools!]

Ye modern spires, ye fireproof floors, Of Boston's boarding-school, Each grateful scion still adores Your Hiram's homely rule; For here no boy would ever brag That he employed a ducal 'f.a.g,'

His 'brolly' for to furl, Or sent a Baronet 'up town'

To fetch his tea from 'Little Brown,'

Or caned a belted Earl!

His scorn of lords the youthful Yank Can openly display, For here, regardless of their rank, The little Viscounts play.

The Earl of Byfleet's eldest son Is known as Percival T. Bunn, And joins the common scrum, As daily he delights to share With Chas. K. Grubb (Lord Woking's heir) His wad of chewing-gum!

Here Reginald, Lord Swaffield's boy, Protects beneath his wing The family of Kid McCoy, The famous Doughnut King; While John, the Duke of Portsmouth's child ('Jawn' by his school-companions styled), Forgets his kith and kin, And soon begets a taste, alack!

For 'highb.a.l.l.s,' 'c.o.c.ktails,' 'canvasback,'

For clams and terrapin!

To each his fancies! I have done.

And yet, for auld lang syne, Though Boston suits another's son, Eton I'll choose for mine!

And though he won't acquire a tw.a.n.g, Or get the hang of Yankee slang, Like others of his cla.s.s, My son I'll seek to Anglicise; For, if Lord Tankerville be wise, I'd sooner be an a.s.s!

THE SPORTING SPIRIT

['The emotional surprise and the unexpected suddenness in the rise of game require great accuracy, rapidity, and nerve control, and experience is in my favour that there are some who are improved in these essentials of good shooting by a little alcohol at lunch.'--Dr. T. CLAYE SHAW in the _Times_.]

It once was my habit to miss ev'ry rabbit At which I might happen to fire; I wasted each cartridge despatching some partridge To die in a neighbouring shire.

By nature ungainly, I struggled, but vainly, A duck or a woodc.o.c.k to kill, And cut a poor figure when pressing the trigger With far greater vigour than skill, Until, all at once, I discovered a tonic, And now (so to speak) my adroitness is chronic!

A flask of old brandy I always keep handy, And, after an opportune nip, My wits are collected, my aim is corrected, My weapon with firmness I grip.

I notice, untroubled, that all things are doubled; Two outlines I hazily trace Of ev'ry c.o.c.k-pheasant, and shooting grows pleasant When each single bird is a brace; Each teal has a twin, ev'ry black-c.o.c.k a brother, And so I am bound to hit one or the other!

[Ill.u.s.tration]

My methods may flurry those neighbours in Surrey Whose eyes I persistently wipe, And startle the Vicar whom once, when in liquor, I shot, in mistake for a snipe; At Bolton or Belvoir my faithful retriever Retrieves more than any dog there; No bag is so heavy as that which I levy At Welbeck, so what do I care?

Sustained by old brandy, in covert or stubble, My fame (and my game) I can daily redouble!

PERSPECTIVE

['It is sad and humiliating, but true, that our humanity is a matter of geography.'--The _Pall Mall Gazette_.]

When told that twenty thousand j.a.ps Are drowned in a typhoon, We feel a trifle shocked, perhaps, But neither faint nor swoon.

'Dear me! How tragic!' we repeat; 'Ah, well! Such things must be!'

Our ordinary lunch we eat And make a hearty tea; Such loss of life (with shame I write) Creates no loss of appet.i.te!

When on a Rocky Mountain ranch Two hundred souls, all told, Are buried in an avalanche, The tidings leave us cold.

'Poor fellows!' we remark. 'Poor things!'

'All crushed to little bits!'

Then go to _Bunty Pulls the Strings_, Have supper at the Ritz, And never even think again Of land-slides in the State of Maine!

But when the paper we take in Describes how Mr. Jones Has slipped on a banana-skin And broken sev'ral bones, 'Good Heavens! What a world!' we shout; 'Disasters never cease!'

'What _is_ the Government about?'

'And _where_ are the Police?'

Distraught by such appalling news All creature comforts we refuse!

Though plagues exterminate the Lapp, And famines ravage Spain, They move us not like some mishap To a suburban train.

Each foreign tale of fire or flood, How trumpery it grows Beside a broken collar-stud, A s.m.u.t upon the nose!

For Charity (Alas! how true!) Begins At Home--and ends there, too!

'RAG-TIME'

At dawn, beneath my cas.e.m.e.nt, Scrubbing the area stairs, The boot-boy in the bas.e.m.e.nt Is whistling rag-time airs.

At breakfast, while I'm eating, A German band outside With unction keeps repeating The latest 'Wedding Glide.'

Where'er I go, whate'er I do, I can't escape from 'Hitchykoo'!

Pursued, as by a pixy, By each infectious air, I 'Want to be in Dixie'

When ev'rybody's there!

Though 'Honolulu-looing'

I've done my best to shun, What 'Ev'rybody's Doing'

I cannot leave undone!

The subtle spell I can't withstand Of 'Alexander's Rag-Time Band'!

Like ancient hosts of Midian, I kneel, enslaved and tame, Before a modern Gideon, And Melville is his name!

He grips me without pity, He binds me with a thong Of contrapuntal ditty, Of syncopated song!

And in his sweet, seductive strains I hear the rattle of my chains!