The Motley Muse Part 7

Some centuries later we find a revival; Once more 'Beef and Liberty' mingle and blend, Where now 'The Beefsteak' represents, without rival, _La vie de Boheme du_ West End!

Here humorous rallies and jocular sallies Are heard at a board where the diet is plain, Where Clayton and Wortley conversed so alertly With Morris or poor Corney Grain, While Brookfield would coin some satirical phrase Which to-day he discovers in other men's plays!

'Tis said that the neophyte's nerves are affected, When first introduced here, his throat becomes dry; At sight of the eminent persons collected, He feels unaccountably shy; Till Bourchier, so breezy, makes ev'rything easy By slapping the newcomer hard on the back, Or Elliot (our Willie) says, 'Dinna be silly!

Set doon an' we'll hae a gude crack!'

When, greatly encouraged, though somewhat abashed, He orders stewed tripe or a 'sausage and mashed.'

Here friendship and talk are the princ.i.p.al factors That make of this Club a resort beyond praise, For writers and soldiers, for lawyers and actors (Who dine here on matinee days).

No cards are permitted, but wits can be pitted, And members in rivalry verbal may vie Who never play poker (although they've a Joe-Carr!) And deprecate _steaks_ that are high!

While brains never weary and tongues never flag, As they do, I believe, at the Turf or the 'Rag'!

CANTO VIII

THE TRAVELLERS'

Though clubs without number are suited to slumber, How few (as has often been noted) To rest and reposing, to dreaming and dozing, Are quite so completely devoted As that which is labelled, in language poetic, The final resort of the peripatetic!

Here peace may be relished, in rooms unembellished By portraits, by prints or engravings, On sofas of leather, designed altogether To satisfy somnolent cravings, Where, clutching the _Times_ or the _Chronicle_ tightly, A member may slumber in public politely.

A subtle aroma, conducive to coma, Which renders the coffee-room pleasant, Proves gratefully cloying to diners enjoying A snooze 'twixt the fish and the pheasant.

The air, as it were, is with somnolence seething, And nothing is heard but their stertorous breathing!

[Ill.u.s.tration]

No card-games are played here, and even 'Old Maid' here Its votaries find uninviting; You might get a quorum for (say) 'Snip-snap-_snorem_,'

But 'Patience' is deemed too exciting; While rubbers of Bridge (should you chance to require some) With partners all 'sleeping' prove terribly tiresome!

These precincts hypnotic provide a narcotic, And trav'llers (all subterfuge scorning) Curl up on their quarters, and tell the hall-porters To call them next Sat.u.r.day morning; And even explorers, their rambles arrested, Become as 'Club-footed' as some one suggested!

CANTO IX

'THE BATH'

Ye citizens of common clay Who, squinting in a painful way, Remove (with grimy hands and grey) The s.m.u.ts upon your noses, Come, follow me to Dover Street Where, any moment, we may meet Figures as fragrant and as sweet As new-mown hay or roses, Tripping along the primrose path That leads each member to 'The Bath'!

Ye breadwinners, who seek in vain To keep your features free from stain, When in some matutinal train To town you daily rush up, Observe the cleanly creatures, please, Who in this club recline at ease!

Existence for such men as these Is one long 'Wash and Brush Up'!

Perfumed and scented, combed and curled, They live unspotted of the world!

Here Indian clubs are deftly swung, And dumb-bells twirled, by old and young; Here 'horizontal bars' are hung With eminent patricians; And when, at times, on Sunday nights, The lady-members (clad in tights), From swimming-bath's sublimest heights, Give diving exhibitions, Tis 'Water, water ev'rywhere'-- And sopped spectators get their share!

Observe that youth, with purple socks And chest suggestive of an ox; He comes to 'punch the ball' or box With (possibly) Lord Desb'rough.

Observe that Admiral; though old, He takes a daily plunge, I'm told, Though when the water's rather cold He very often says 'Brrrh!'

Or, if the suds get in his eyes, 'Here! What the _douche_!' he crossly cries.

That warning, to the sloven dear: 'Abandon Soap who enter here!'

Upon these walls does not appear, To rea.s.sure the dirty; But on the Turkish bathroom screen, Pinned to a notice-board of green, This statement, day by day, is seen: 'Pores Open, 7.30.'

Till Bishops at 'The Bath,' they say, Are moved to murmur, 'Let us Spray!'

Then, Gentle Reader, I advise (Should opportunity arise) That you should be extremely wise And join this inst.i.tution; And thus, though deeming dumb-bells 'Bosh!'

And scorning hectic games of 'Squash,'

You may enjoy a thorough wash, A top-to-toe ablution, Nor die, in deep dejection plunged, 'Unsoapt, unlathered, and unsponged!'

SONGS IN SEASON

NEW YEAR'S EVE

In fashion reflective, with plaint or invective, We view in perspective the year in eclipse, The duties neglected, the faults uncorrected, The blunders, the failures, the slips!

We note with depression that painful procession Of lapse and transgression which held us in thrall, The sins of omission, the vaulting ambition, The pride that preceded each fall!

Regretful, alas! we are loth to remember The good resolutions we made last December!

The keen politicians who cherished ambitions To better conditions for sons of the State, Make private confession of wasting each session In fruitless and futile debate; The Peer of position regards with contrition That past inanition, so hard to resist; The social reformer grows sensibly warmer, To note opportunities miss'd; While Cabinet statesmen still seek (somewhat sadly) For patience to suffer the Suffragettes gladly!

But never despairing, each mind, greatly daring, Fresh programmes preparing, fresh projects revolves; New plans undertaking, new promises making, New plots, new designs, new resolves!

With hopes unabated, and spirits elated, We feel ourselves fated, this year, to succeed, Devising and dreaming, suggesting and scheming To triumph, to conquer, to lead!

With hearts that are wiser (though probably sadder), We start once again at the foot of the ladder!

FEBRUARY

['Really, there must be something rather fine in the English character that enables it to triumph over the English climate.'--The _Pall Mall Gazette_.]

[Ill.u.s.tration]

I gaze each morning through my rainswept cas.e.m.e.nt, Into the murky, mud-bound street below; I grimly note the slush that floods the bas.e.m.e.nt, The hail, the sleet--and oh!

I feel that I am greater than I know!

Only a demiG.o.d could thrive 'Mid such surroundings drear; Only a hero could survive In such an atmosphere!

Each day the sullen sky becomes more leaden, The weather grows less suited to a dog; Each night damp mists arise, to chill and deaden!

(The golf-course is a bog: Twice has my ball been stymied by a frog!) Still sweetly in my bosom wakes The knowledge nought can mar, That 'tis our island climate makes Us Britons what we are!

For if we basked in fragrant, warm oases, We should not wear that air of self-control Which, round about our placid British faces, Shines like an aureole, Expressing true stolidity of soul.

To chill and gloom, to frost and thaw, Our country owes to-day The dogged jaw of Bonar Law, The eye of Edward Grey!

O Mother England, wettest of wet nurses, Where would a poet be without your clime, Which gives him such a subject for his verses, Supplying (ev'ry time) A reason for his undistinguished rhyme?

His lesson may be sharp and stern, His anguish keen and long; But so in sniffing he may learn What he expounds in song!

SPRING

When the hand of ev'ry Briton, 'spite of glove or woolly mitten, By the frost severely bitten, grows as frigid as a stone, When he scuttles like a lizard through the bitter biting blizzard, Which benumbs his very gizzard and which chills him to the bone; When the constable stands scowling, where the hurricane is howling, Or goes miserably prowling, with no shelter from the storm, And the working-man, half-fuddled, jug to bosom closely cuddled, In each public-house is huddled, in his efforts to get warm; Then the poet (known as 'minor') deems it suitable to sing That there's nothing much diviner than the pleasures of the Spring!

[Ill.u.s.tration]