Verse and Worse Part 11

THE BALLAD OF THE ARTIST

Archibald Ames is an artist, And a widely renowned R.A., For albeit his pictures are thoroughly bad, The greatest success he has always had, And he makes his profession pay.

He has no idea of proportion, No notion of colour or line, But perhaps for such there is little need, Since everybody is fully agreed That his _subjects_ are quite divine.

His pictures are sweetly simple; The ingredients all must know,-- Just a fair-haired child and a dog or two, A very old man, and a baby's shoe, And some bunches of mistletoe.

In some, an angelic infant Is helping a kitten to play, Or dressing a cat in Grandpapa's hat (Which is equally hard on the hat and the cat), Or teaching a 'dolly' to pray.

Or else there's a runaway couple, With a distant view of papa, An elderly party with rich man's gout, Who swears himself rapidly inside out, In a broken-down motor-car.

Or it may be a scene in the Workhouse, Where a widow of high degree, With almost suspiciously puce-coloured hair, Has arrived in a gorgeous carriage-and-pair, To distribute a pound of tea.

Sometimes he portrays a battle, With a 'square' like a Rugby scrum, Where a bugler, the colours grasped in his hand, And making a final determined stand, Plays 'G.o.d Save the King' on a drum.

This is the kind of subject That he gives to us day by day; You may jeer at the absence of all technique, But these are the pictures the people seek From this justly renowned R.A.

In distant suburban boudoirs You will find them, in gilded frames, 'The Prodigal Calf' (a homely scene) 'Grandmamma's Boots,' or 'To Gretna Green,'

The Works of Archibald Ames.

And, if they appeal to the public, In the usual course of events, Some enterprising manager comes, And buys them up for enormous sums, And they serve as advertis.e.m.e.nts.

Where the child is painting the kitten With Potter's Indelible Dye, While Grandpapa shows to the reckless cat McBride's Indestructible Gibus Hat, (Which Ev'ry one ought to buy).

And the Gretna Green arrangement An interest new acquires, By depicting how great the advantages are Of the Patented Spoofenhauss Auto-car, With unpuncturable tyres.

And the widow (Try Kay's for mourning), As black as Stevenson's Ink, Is curing the paupers of sundry ills By the gift of a box of the Palest Pills For persons who may be Pink.

And the bugler-boy in the battle, With trousers of Blackett's Blue, Unshrinking as Simpson's Serge, and free As Winkleson's Patent Ear-drum he, And steadfast as Holdhard's Glue.

This is the modern fashion In the popular art of the day, And this is the reason that Archibald Ames Ranks high among other familiar names As a very well-known R.A.

THE BALLAD OF PING-PONG

(_After Swinburne_)

The murmurous moments of May-time, What bountiful blessings they bring!

As dew to the dawn of the day-time, Suspicions of Summer to Spring!

Let others imagine the time light, With maidens or books on their knee, Or live in the languorous limelight That tinges the trunk of the Tree.

Let the timorous turn to their tennis, Or the bowls to which b.u.mpkins belong, But the thing for grown women and men is The pastime of ping and of pong.

The game of the glorious glamour!

The feeling to fight till you fall!

The hurricane hail and the hammer!

The batter and bruise of the ball!

The glory of getting behind it!

The brief but bewildering bliss!

The fear of the failure to find it!

The madness at making a miss!

The sound of the sphere as you smack it, Derisive, decisive, divine!

The riotous rush of your racket, To mix and to mingle with mine!

The diadem dear to the King is, How sweet to the singer his song; To me so the plea of the ping is, And the pa.s.sionate plaint of the pong.

I live for it, love for it, like it; Delight of my dearest of dreams!

To stand and to strive and to strike it,-- So certain, so simple it seems!

Then give me the game of the gay time, The ball on its wandering wing, The pastime for night or for day-time, The Pong, not to mention the Ping!

THE PESSIMIST

(_After Maeterlinck_)

Life's bed is full of crumbs and rice, No roses float on my lagoon; There are no fingers, white and nice, To rub my head with scented ice, Or feed me with a spoon.

I think of all the days gone by, Replete with black and blue regret; No comets light my glaucous sky, My tears are hardly ever dry, I never can forget!

I see the yellow dog, Desire, That strains against the lead of Hope, With lilac eyes and lips of fire, As all in vain he strives to tire The hand that holds the rope.

I see the kisses of the past, Like lambkins dying in the snow, The honeymoon that did not last, The tinted youth that flew so fast, And all this vale of woe.

So, raising high my raucous cry, I ask (and Fates no answer give), Why am I pre-ordained to die?

O cruel Fortune, tell me, why Am I allowed to live?

THE PLACE WHERE THE OLD CLEEK BROKE

(_After Whyte-Melville_)

Life is hollow to the golfer, of however high his rank, If the dock-leaf and the nettle grow too free, If a bramble bar his progress, if he's bunkered by a bank, If his golf-ball jerks and wobbles off the tee.

There's a ditch I never pa.s.s, full of stones and broken gla.s.s, And I'd sooner lift my ball and count a stroke, For the tears my vision blot when I see the fatal spot, 'Tis the place where my old cleek broke.

There's his haft upon the table, there's his head upon a chair; And a better never felt the summer rain; I may curse and I may swear, my umbrella-stand is bare, I shall never use my gallant cleek again!

With what unaccustomed speed would he strike the Golf-ball teed!

How it sounded on his metal at each stroke!

Not a flyer in the game such parabolas could claim, At the place where the old cleek broke!

Was he cracked? I hardly think it. Did he slip? I do not know.

He had struck the ball for forty yards or more; He was driving smooth and even, just as hard as he could go, I had never seen him striking so before.

But I hardly can complain, for there must have been a strain I had forced beyond the compa.s.s of a joke-- And no club, however strong, could have lasted over long At the place where the old cleek broke!

There are men, both staid and sound, who hold it happiness unique, At which only the irreverent can scoff, That is reached by means of bra.s.sey, driver, niblick, spoon, or cleek, And that life is not worth living without Golf.

Well, I hope it may be so; for myself I only know That I never more shall try another stroke; Yes, I've wearied of the sport, since a lesson I was taught, At the place where the old cleek broke.