The Scarlet Gown Part 7

It is not worth correcting: let it go: But shall I? Answer, Prudence, answer, no.

And bid me do it right or not at all.

THE WASTER SINGING AT MIDNIGHT

AFTER LONGFELLOW

Loud he sang the song Ta Phershon For his personal diversion, Sang the chorus U-pi-dee, Sang about the Barley Bree.

In that hour when all is quiet Sang he songs of noise and riot, In a voice so loud and queer That I wakened up to hear.

Songs that distantly resembled Those one hears from men a.s.sembled In the old Cross Keys Hotel, Only sung not half so well.

For the time of this ecstatic Amateur was most erratic, And he only hit the key Once in every melody.

If 'he wot prigs wot isn't his'n Ven he's cotched is sent to prison,'

He who murders sleep might well Adorn a solitary cell.

But, if no obliging peeler Will arrest this midnight squealer, My own peculiar arm of might Must undertake the job to-night.

THIRTY YEARS AFTER

Two old St. Andrews men, after a separation of nearly thirty years, meet by chance at a wayside inn. They interchange experiences; and at length one of them, who is an admirer of Mr. Swinburne's _Poems and Ballads_, speaks as follows:

If you were now a bejant, And I a first year man, We'd grind and grub together In every kind of weather, When Winter's snows were regent, Or when the Spring began; If you were now a bejant, And I a first year man.

If you were what you once were, And I the same man still, You'd be the gainer by it, For you--you can't deny it-- A most uncommon dunce were; My profit would be nil, If you were what you once were, And I the same man still.

If you were last in Latin, And I were first in Greek, I'd write your Latin proses, While you indulged in dozes, Or carved the bench you sat in, So innocent and meek; If you were last in Latin, And I were first in Greek.

If I had got a prize, Jim, And your certif. was bad, And you were filled with sorrow And brooding on the morrow, I'd gently sympathise, Jim, And bid you not be sad, If I had got a prize, Jim, And your certif. was bad.

If I were through in Moral, And you were spun in Math., I'd break it to your parent, When you confessed you daren't, And so avert a quarrel And smooth away his wrath; If I were through in Moral, And you were spun in Math.

My prospects rather shone, Jim, And yours were rather dark, And those who knew us both then Would often take their oath then, That you would not get on, Jim, While I should make my mark; My prospects rather shone, Jim, And yours were rather dark.

Yet somehow you've made money, And I am still obscure; Your face is round and red, Jim, While I look underfed, Jim; The thing's extremely funny, And beats me, I am sure, Yet somehow you've made money, And I am still obscure.

THE GOLF-BALL AND THE LOAN

AFTER LONGFELLOW

I drove a golf-ball into the air, It fell to earth, I knew not where; For, so swiftly it flew, the sight Could not follow it in its flight.

I lent five shillings to some men, They spent it all, I know not when, For who is quick enough to know The time in which a crown may go?

Long, long afterward, in a whin I found the golf-ball, black as sin; But the five shillings are missing still!

They haven't turned up, and I doubt if they will.

TO THE READER OF 'UNIVERSITY NOTES'

Ah yes, we know what you're saying, As your eye glances over these Notes: 'What a.s.ses are these that are braying With flat and unmusical throats?

Who writes such unspeakable patter?

Is it lunatics, idiots--or who?'

And you think there is 'something the matter.'

Well, we think so too.

We have sat, full of sickness and sorrow, As the hours dragged heavily on, Till the midnight has merged into morrow, And the darkness is going or gone.

We are Editors. Give us the credit Of meaning to do what we could; But, since there is nothing to edit, It isn't much good.

Once we shared the delightful delusion That to edit was racy and rare, But we suffered a sad disillusion, And we found that our castles were air; We had decked them with carvings and gildings, We had filled them with laughter and fun, But all of a sudden the buildings Came down with a run.

Not a trace was there left of the carving, And the gilding had vanished from sight; But the 'column' for matter was starving, And we had not to edit--but write.

So we set to and wrote. Can you wonder, If the writing was feeble or dead?

We had started as editors--Thunder!

We were authors instead.

We'd mistaken our calling, election, Vocation, department, and use; We had thought that our task was selection, And we found that we had to produce.

So we sigh for release from our labours, We pray for a happy despatch, We will take our last leave of our neighbours, And then--Colney Hatch.

We are singing this dolorous ditty As we part at the foot of the stairs; We cannot but think it's a pity, But what matter? there's n.o.body cares.

Our candle burns low in its socket, There is nothing left but the wick; And these Notes, that went up like a rocket, Come down like the stick.

[GREEK t.i.tLE]

Ever to be the best. To lead In whatsoever things are true; Not stand among the halting crew, The faint of heart, the feeble-kneed, Who tarry for a certain sign To make them follow with the rest-- Oh, let not their reproach be thine!

But ever be the best.

For want of this aspiring soul, Great deeds on earth remain undone, But, sharpened by the sight of one, Many shall press toward the goal.