Wayside Weeds Part 6

"Die Liebe," "Das Herz" and "Die Welt,"

But leider, we haven't the power, To sing from the public "Das Geld."

The plumbers have their Union, Fast joined the joiners keep, And sweep hold dark communion, With sooty brother sweep.

The motormen and switchmen, The very firemen band, Alone against the richmen, The Poets helpless stand.

A fig for the Philistine slander, Let's cut from all precedent loose, What's sauce for the bus-driving gander, Is sauce for the quill-driving goose.

We'll found (because empty our purse is) A Lyrische Dichterverein; And we won't write any more verses, Under 50 pfennig a line.[10]

[9]"Seventy lyric poets in Germany have formed a trade's union, and agreed not to sell their verses for less than half a mark a line."-_Daily paper._

[10]The author encloses his name and address, not for publication, but in order that the editor may know where to send the three dollars and thirty-six cents-twenty-eight lines at twelve cents.

Psychology

Dr. Jaeger has propounded the theory that the Soul is an emanation emitted by animals, and is the cause of the odour characteristic of each species. Cf. in _Lives of the Saints_, "the odour of sanct.i.ty"; also _supra_, page 17.

What's the Soul? throughout the ages Mystery never yet unveiled Prophets, poets, saints and sages All have tried and all have failed.

But at last we've got an answer No vague dream or fancy vaguer From a scientific man-Sir Herr Professor Dr. Jaeger.

Printed in his lucid pages This is what he has to tell Listen poets; listen sages; That's the Soul that makes the smell.

Whoso takes his meat to season Onions chopped or garlic whole Shall enjoy a feast of reason Followed by a flow of soul.

The Bal Poudre[11]

The Reverend Canon Dumoulin Although he don't object To dancing in a room along With company select Can't tolerate the _Bal Poudre_ I am not surprised at all For when there's powder, cannons play The mischief with a ball.

[11]While rector of St. James's, Toronto, the late Canon Dumoulin protested against the holding of a _bal poudre_ in aid of a local charity.

Wisdom and Fancy _From the German of_ A. G. Marius.

With weary steps as Wisdom trod In Reason's dusty way Came Fancy with alluring nod And beckoned him astray.

Laughing she s.n.a.t.c.hed away his books, And charmed him with her witching looks, He could not say her nay.

She shook her curls with childlike grace And all his anger fled, He looked into her sunny face And followed where she led.

And lo! his weariness was gone Fresh vigour filled his soul She led him up, she led him on Till he had reached his goal.

Persicos odi TO MY TOBACCONIST

I hate your imported Havannahs, Your perfumed cheroots I decline; His own special weakness each man has, A pipe, I confess it, is mine.

Why take from their elegant wrappers Your gilded cork-tipped cigarettes, Fit only for militant flappers Or reckless R.M.C. cadets?

What need for cigars to be pining When smoking a briar or a clay; In front of the fire I'm reclining, And peacefully puffing away.

The Iceberg

We stood upon the deck and saw Mid fog and mist the iceberg loom; And while we gazed in wondering awe, It vanished into mist and gloom.

With various skill each tried to draw What printed on his brain had been The vision that he thought he saw Or that he thought he should have seen.

Some drew it flat, some drew it round And some with many a tower and steeple And when we shewed our work we found As many bergs as there were people!

Across each other's paths we drift Pale shadows on a misty sea.

The clouds but for a moment lift Then naught is left but memory.

If then at any distant day Your thoughts should chance to turn to me Draw me not as I am, I pray, But as you think I ought to be.

Horace, Odes I. i.[12]

Colonel, Most worthy President, Our Club's chief stay and ornament, One man who drives with dust and jar A 40 h.p. motor car, All other mortals counts but clods, Himself a rival of the G.o.ds.

The fickle crowd another woos Him for a threefold term to choose.

A third will lie awake all night If Manitoba wheat be light.

Not Rockefeller's treasure chest Could tempt the Farmer to invest The savings of his life of toil In shares of rubber or of oil.

The liner's skipper when he steers, The foghorn booming in his ears, Through thousand dangers all unseen, Sighs for the peaceful village green; Yet fog nor ice nor foundered ships Can stop him making record trips.

Some spurn not, when their throats are dry, Long drinks of Irish or Old Rye, Nor scorn to blow through moistened lips Great clouds of smoke between the sips; Others in such things find no charms, And when the bugle calls to arms Would banish from the tented green (Bugbear of matrons) the Canteen.

The hunter leaves his tender spouse For a rude bed of hemlock boughs, Content to bag a head or two Of bearded moose or caribou.

But give me rather, if you please, A score-card full of 4's and 3's.

The bunker cleared, the putt gone done, And, of all joys the flower and crown, The well-hit tee-shot's graceful flight When everything has gone just right!