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MORE DRK DIQTR

VERSES WRITTEN IN ©ALeUTTH (1894—1910)

\

AND

PHILATELIC VERSES

WILMOT CORFIELD, f.r.p.s.l., f.n.b.a., a.s.a.a

<u

Member of the Royal Society of Arts First Honorary Treasurer of the Calcutta Historical Society

Vice-President of the Philatelic Society of India ; and of the Fiscal Philatelic Society ( London )

SECOND EDITION

CALCUTTA

THACKER, SPINK AND CO

1911

[All rights reserved]

'

CALCUTTA :

PRINTED BY THACKER, SPINK AND CO.

✓

TO MY WIFE

Gift of

GEORGE T TURNER

PREFACE.

My “ Dak Dicta ” having been well received I now have pleasure in issuing the remainder of the verses written in Calcutta above my nom-de-plume “ Dak,” with the same acknowledgments to previous publishers.

Some of my friends have expressed to me surprise that in the course of an exceptionally busy life I have found time for dalliance with one of the Muses. Perhaps they and others similarly astonished may find in the following extract from a London newspaper of a few weeks ago food for reflection of a kind to lighten their mental darkness ; in some cases oh how great that darkness.

“ In opening the winter session of the University College Hospital Medical School the Dean of Salisbury warned doctors against cultivating a too severely scienti¬ fic habit of mind.

“ The Dean said that if he were a director of a medical school he would advise the students that the realm of fine arts was that into which they should make excursions for the refreshment and enlargement of the mental life. In his judgment the most efficacious, as well as the most easily accessible hobby to counteract

the influence of mental concentration on specialism was poetry, the queen of the arts.

“ Let those who are piling up fees and rushing from one thing to another on to a baronetcy — (laughter) — stop their motor-car when they pass the National Gallery and enter and gaze for a minute or two at the Madonna of the Rocks, or go to the British Museum and seek the great statues of Theseus or Dionysius. ‘ But poetry you can have with you every day,’ added the Dean, amid applause.”

And to the good Dean’s closing remark may I further add “ and also verse ? ”

Calcutta,

19th December, 1910.

W. C.

VI

CONTENTS.

Rupert’s Raid		Page ... 1
Shelved			6
Out of Patience ..			8
Horribile Billi			9
The Tale of a Town Hall	...		10
Job Charnock’s Prophetic Soliloquy	...		12
The Lion	...		13
The Voice of the Vengeance	...		14
Unhistoric Calcutta	...		1 5
Conciliation	...		17
The Impasse and the Elephant	...		19
Bonnie Dundee ...	...		21
Waking it Up (Part I)	...		22
Waking it Up (Part II)			23
All in the same Swim	...		24
Rampini’s off To-day	...		25
I know a Bank where by the Wild Tram Goes		26
Gazetted			27
The New Town Hall	...		28
The Merry Milliner			29
To an Absentee Leader	. ,		31
Ho 1 Ieroe ... / ...	...	• w	33
The Thin End of the Wedge	_		34
Hospital Sunday	...		37
The Dream of Kurzon Khan	...		38
To G. E. ... ,	e . .		39
To Winston in the Old Lion’s Den		, _	41
Thanks, — Banks ...			43
Looking North			44
The Pill, the Pill, and Nothing but the	Pill		46
One Chance Left ...			47
The Apotheosis of the Ant		, „	50
Cherangi ad Leones	...		51
Cave Canem			53
London the Key ... “Momentous’'	0 , ,		64
		66
Wandering Quatrains			68
Cupid	...		60
Rosscued ... ...			61
Ann Veronica			62
The Sea Queen	T1t -		63
The Book Lover in India ...	»ao		64

vii

CONTENTS.

The Waiting Watcher			Page. ... 65
Six Books		...	... 66
The Gates of Ind			... 67
Discharged		...	.„ 68
The Sistrum			... 70
Charles George Hillersden Allen, I.C.S.			- 71
Ab Urbe Condita	,,,	, M	... 72
On an Editor’s Leader			... 76
To That Insect			... 77
A Sextette			... 79
Omimosa San	...		... 79
The Dauntless Three	...	. M	... 80
The Scent of the Roses			... 82
At Chota Hazri		...	... 83
The Non-Melancholy Dane _	...		... 84
A Man’s Hate			... 85
The Punch Cartoons	,,,	...	... 86
A Quartette			... 87
A Back Word			... 88
Pot Pourri ... ..			.... 89
On Anything	...		... 91
Adrift...			... 91
At the Parliament House	...		... 92
Thackeray and Macaulay “Eengonyama” ...		.M	... 94
		... 95
“Queen Anne’s Dead ”	...		... 96
Hisillusionment ...		...	... 96
Switzerland			... 96
At the Parliament House _		, „	... 97
Impromtu at the Parliament House			... 97
The Little Nipper Up-to-date		...	... 98
Pot Pourri Again .„			... 99
The Point of View			... 101
Dartymoor			... 102
Greek Unseens			... 104
“Alicia” —			... 105
Beautifying the Maidan			... 106
The Devil and the Deep Sea ...	...		... 107
Fiat Lux		...	... 107
Beautifying the Maidan Again			... 108
The Jolly Roger ...			... 109
Sighmoana and Pasquino An “ Asian Mystery ”			... 109
	...	... no
Two at the Top			... in
Up Again			... 114
The Lynx		...	... 114
“ Max ” Quacks ...			... 115
The Lady from Gay Paree	...		... 117
An Earlier Birmingham			... 119
St. Shirley	...		... 119

viii

CONTENTS,

Cromwell and Milton

The Camel, or a Friend in Eed

One Little Noon

PAGffi,

... 121 ... 122 ... 124

PART II.

/

Philatelic

A Philatelic Rhapsody

The Walrus and Philatelist ...

Ah Sid ' ...

The Curse

The Apotheosis of the Gumbug Misbeliefs Shylock Up-to-Date Looking Forward A Rail Mistake In Memoriam — Rowland Hill Britannia’s Soliloquy Resignation Brussels Sprouts ...

Suggested Arms for the Philatelic Society of India A Rejoinder to “ Mr. Punch ”

The “ Widow ” Again

Snippets

Delhi

Phantom Fun

The Wiles of Greece

After the War Flood

Thoughts at a Stamp Auction

Preface by an Ad-Interim Editor

Servia

An Old Song Re-set Sing a Song of Imprints The Very Mab

To the First Spanish Postage Stamp (I860)

A Pleasant Surprise

My Old Dutch

Tgte Brlche ; or On a String

The Russian War Stamps

Fancy Dress

Phi-lear-telic Limericks

Postponed

Which ?

Once Moore

The Baby, the Pup, and the Bunny Ay, There’s the Rub ...

I Remember, I Remenber

To Stanley Gibbons’ “ Monthly Journal ”

... 127 ... 136 ... 136 ... 138 ... 139 140 ... 142 ... 142 ... 144 ... 144 ... 144 ... 145 ... 146 ... 146 ... 146 ... 147 ... 148 ... 149 ... 160 ... 160 ... 161 ... 153 ... 154 ... 154 ... 156 ... 166 156 ... 157 ... 158 ... 159 ... 160 ... 160 ... 162 _ 163 ... 166 ... 170 ... 171 ... 171 ... 171 ... 172 ... 173 ... 174

is

RUPERT’S RAID. (3rd Afril 1643.)

TILING- wide the pane — I hear them call — The bells are calling, clear and free, Come closer, children, one and all,

And you, my blue-eyed Dorothy,

Creep closest, dearest, press my cheek —

The bells are there, I hear them speak.

Oh, God ! they call as called they then :

(Toss back the curtain from my bed)

I mind the tread of marching men !

I mind the torches’ burning dread ! —

How those wild bells went hurtling wide From Harborne’s brow that Eastertide.

For Rupert came, with steel and flame ;

And all the world with war went red ; — From Bourne to Rea, from Rea to Tame,

The reeking ravens shrieking sped ; —

And all the while from Harborne’s brow The bells rang out — they’re ringing now.

Some strove, they say, for Church and King ;■ (God saw and shrank to stay the wrong) And some for lust of fight, — they ring The bells go ringing all day long.

And most for home, and child, and wife,

For England’s laws and England’s life.

The town within the hollow there Was all alive the foe to smite ;

There hammered anvils rent the air,

And forges flared by day and night.

The ford was flanked by wagons piled,

The bridge-way fenced — (come closer, child !)

My son (your uncle, children mine ;

A goodlier son ne’er woman bare)

In buff and scarlet garb shewed fine,

Astride Grey Bess, our dappled mare,

As spurring to my cottage side,

“ Christ save us, mother !” thus he cried.

“ King Charles’ force make Lichfield Fane With drake and sacre. Horse and man, Twelve hundred strong are under rein,

And ruthless Rupert heads their van In haste to pay us back our call On Thomas Holte at Aston Hall ! ”

“ The Prince will reach the town to-day, They drub the drums on yonder green,

Our musters thicken for the fray And blades are set and pikes are keen ;

‘ For God and Right,’ the people shout ! ”

(“ For God and Right, ” the bells rang out.)

I kissed him there before the men ;

I watched them wend down Harborne Hill, Into the vale they dipped, and then

They crossed the Chad’s reed-woven rill — I see them, see them now, although ’Twas three score years save five ago.

I strained to catch the last faint glow Of light from off his corslet cast,

The wan, wild sun scarce served to show Each glinting plume as on they passed —

A sturdy warrior cavalcade —

To bear the brunt of Rupert’s raid.

A brook was by, I laved my head,

And gat me home, and sought to sleep ; Above the town the sky lowered red,

We women watched but could not weep — And through the street and down the hill The men went townward, townward still.

All night yon church tower reeling hurled A clamorous tocsin near and far ;

All night the battle-clangour whirled,

And great fires blazed on Clent and Barr. And some saw sights not good to tell ;

May Mary shrive their souls from hell !

2

A cloud-fiend, with a brazen brand,

Fled yammering with a muffled face —

From Cofton Firs his pinions spanned And merged in mist on Sutton Chase, —

A murky monster, maundering wrath,

Great spume spates flecking all his path.

'He passed, and round the welkin’s rim Fell shapes belaboured each in strife ; Unhallowed jargon, strange and grim,

Jangled the air with discord rife —

(So gossips tell) as sobs and knells

Were flung from Harborne’s throbbing bells.

A spectre hand with shadowy axe Loomed large aslant of Tennel Hall,

Pale formless hounds in phantom packs Thrice skirted Quinton’s churchyard wall, And slabs were seen to heave and sway O’er grey escutcheoned vaults, men say.

Yes, turn my pillow, lay it so,

And place some water to my lip,

All these things happed long years ago,

When yon great elm was but a slip.

How sweet that bright laburnum smells !

God saw it all — there go the bells !

Next day, at dawn, I hied to town ;

At noon the trumpet charge rang loud,

And Rupert’s horsemen sweeping down, Crashed, cursing, through our feeble crowd.

I saw them tear through Digbeth mire As fiends aflush with hell’s own fire

Boots it to tell ? You know the tale !

The steel-shod stallions forward strode,

With thrust and stab and stroke as flail Resistless Rupert onward rode ;

Then stalled his steed in Martin’s porch And gave the town to loot and torch.

My son ! My son ! I sought him long,

Where dead lay thick, where lust ran high, Where ribald roysterers wrought them wrong, ’Twere pain to speak. The star-pierced sky Stretched one vast shame-fed shrieking pall From Stratford Grange to Leather Hall.

3

The stench from Master Porter’s dam,

Where dead in slime lay festering, they Who’d fallen fronting Rupert’s ram That forced the mill, filled every way With fever-freighted puffs, rolled thick Till strong men reeled to feel its lick.

The Anchor, where the Prince caroused,

The Crown-house, where red Rhenish flowed,

The Cross, where bated bears are housed And bulls are spiked for sport, each showed An aftermath of beastial fight In Bromwicham that fiery night.

I sought my boy and sought him wide,

I searched through good King Edward’s Guild Where frightened women crouched and cried (The ample Court with troopers filled),

With smoke-veiled eyes and grief-split heart,

The lamb-house and the Goddes Cart.

The Chepe aflame with beasts was loud Broke loose from out the shambles near —

Horned beasts, hides roasting, hacked and houghed, Thronged raging, bellowing, steer to steer —

Pert drink-stuffed hoydens haggling by To see the grand brutes screeching die.

There, shift my shoulders, let me look On glebe all green and church half rust,

Where Parson Ward from gold rimmed book On Sundays tell us “God is just.”

It must be so — to doubt is sin —

Though great bulls burn while wantons grin.

No sparrow falls, no swallow fails,

He knows it well, and He is good ;

But babes were ripped on park-fence rails That night hard by in Ladywood,

And girls were thrust to worse than death,

“ The Lord is love” so parson saith.

No more, no more, of that cruel past Of havoc-wreck and endless ache —

The bells are flying, plying fast —

(Good lack, my hands are all ashake !)

Dead, dead, I looked my last on him Beneath the lych-gate’s yew-shade dim.

4

I’d staggered home, scarce knowing wliy, Old Tib mewed moping by the door.

The ash-strewn grey cold hearth, anigh Was Don stretched snoring on the floor, When clear across the sprouting corn,

The drone of muffled drums was borne.

’Twas he they bore with martial tread And earth-cast look and halting stride, For him, the dead, the glorious dead. They stirred the turf that Eastertide ; The passing bell boomed forth elate To greet him ’neath the ledged lych-gate.

The first to buffet Rupert’s swoop,

’Twas he hurled Denby from his cell ;

He hewed a track through Digby’s troop,

And lopped and lashed the charge to quell , Five foemen harried him in vain Through Walmore Fieldsand Congrees Lane.

Leech Tillam, standing at his door,

Was shot to death. He cleft the cur Who snapt the cock from cheek to jaw ;

Then, sword unwiped and dripping spur, Dashed on to succour Greaves’ band Who battled Digby hand to hand.

And Digby fell at Good Knave’s End,

And graceless Denby bit the gorse At Shirland bounds — (may Christ forfend The sin-wage of his rueful course !) And he, my son, wound-faint, athirst, Swooned, death-smote by the Ravenhurst.

In wooded haunt, where ravens brood,

On bracken couched, at vesper tide He slid to sleep in solitude,

The bells, the bells still floating wide, —

The bells from grey-towered Harborne’s brow, St. Peter’s bells — they’re ringing now.

5

The axe smote straight at Whitehall gate ;

Grim Oliver in storm hath sped ;

An alien heir shapes England’s fate,

And England honours England’s dead, — The bells ring on, — and ne’er shall fade The stern, sad tale of Rupert’s raid.

“ Edgbastonia. ” ( Birmingham ) August 1894.

SHELVED.

(*The Calcutta Improvement Scheme.)

“Unhappily, Lord Curzon’s services are not available and we must wait till

somebody else turns up.” Wilmot Corfield in the “ Empire,” 26tli October, 1906.

’ rPlS well to preach and ’tis well to prate and ’tis well to be slinging the gup,

But better to leave the righting of wrong till somebody else turns up.

Ho ! bring me stylos and flagons of ink with blue-lined reams of the best,

And never forget the safe old saw “ the land hath need of a rest.”

The town hath need of a big new broom — a broom of the goodliest brand —

A broom that will rush through slime and slush when somebody comes to hand,

The town hath Death on the dance-a-shout, from the core to the bor¬ der’s rim,

So we sleep, let the fleshless fool fling on — why worry a bit about him ?

Ah me ! when the man with the mind comes by, when that somebody else is found,

How the slime will slink and the spectre fly and the spade and the pick resound.

How the great good sun and the reeking earth will grapple it hot and strong.

Ho ! the pest will pass and the plague will die when somebody comes along.

* In a speech by Lord Curzon toward s the end of his first period of office he is reported to have said that were he not Viceroy he would like to he Chairman of the Calcutta Corporation with a free hand.

6

“ The land hath need of a rest,” they say,- but the town of a broom, and so

When that somebody somewhere comes this way we don’t for the moment know.

The smoke curls white from the ghat’s hot lip, and the death gongs rattle apace,

And the people are pent in a palsied grip at the heel of an alien race.

We hold the land as “ a trust for aye,” and the town rots under a pall,

But the land needs rest, and the people die and nobody’s coming at all.

The flag of the English King flaunts wide to the haze of a brazen sky,

And the white flares red where the flame leaps light but nobody else comes by.

Then bring me stylos and bring me ink and blue-lined reams of the best —

The hukhum hath come from the Talking-house where the white men rule in the west

And the neck and the crop of the Why ? is this — that the land hath need of a rest —

So look to it well that ye sleep apace and snore as the death-gongs ring,

While the tom-toms beat in a frenzied chase to the laud of the spectre king,

And heed ye well as ye drain the dregs of the “rest-cure’s ” somno¬ lent cup

Don’t ever tackle a wrong but wait till somebody else turns up.

The Empire, 30f h October 1906.

7

OUT OF PATIENCE.

(A REJOINDER.)

“ In spite of the gibe of our poetic contributor, ‘Dak,’ the general feeling

was that the land had need of a rest . Lord Minto came to India and he

has gone on from strength to strength. He has not made as many speeches in twelve months as some Viceroys would already have made in the course of the

Cold weather tour . Lord Minto is to be most respectfully congratulated

upon his brilliant silences. ” — The Empire, 2fth November 1906.

“ The jokes of even our new, and ably conducted, evening newspaper are not always readily apparent.” -Mr. S. K. Ratcliffe in the course of “ An Evening with Punch ” at the Y. M. C. A., 24th November 1906,

TF you’re anxious to define the correct Viceregal line And dilute it down to merely laissez faire —

You dilate in glowing phrase On these simple silent days And you please folks everywhere.

You must pose as an apostle Of an age that doesn’t jostle On a non-committal pacifying plan —

Dhurrumtollah and Chowringhee And each motor, tram and dinghy Will proclaim “ There — that’s the man ! ”

And everyone will say, etc.

You musn’t sound the praise of the spacious Curzon days That have long since known decay,

But sing out we’ve one at length Who goes on from strength to strength In a placid, pleasing, passive sort of way.

Send the psean on in printo By a peon to Lord Minto —

Who’ll say “ thank you, very kindly, Mr. Blair

And don’t listen to the gibe

Of a versifying scribe

Who had scented Retrogression in the air.

And everyone will say

(As the “ Empire ” carves its way)

“ That ‘ Empire ’ man expresses himself in terms that just suit me :

“ Why what a most imperially minded man “ That ‘ Empire ’ man must be !”

The Empire, 26 th November 1906.

HORRIBILE BILLI.

Or the Billi that Dihhed you :

(An old saw re-set.)

“ A correspondent writes to us complaining of the nuisance occasioned by the prevalence of stray dogs in the neighbourhood of Gurranhatta. We are aston¬ ished that no one has yet written about the cats in the neighbourhood of Chowringhee.” — The “ Empire, ” 13th December 1906.

/^jJRUDGE not the billi jat ^ Infant immersion —

Tabby or “ torture ” shell, Mongrel or Persian — Whate’er the prowler’s name, All cats are just the same,

All play the same old game — Direful diversion.

Brick-bats, etc.

Where’er the billi prowls People cry “ drat her !” Chowringhee, Ballyganj Or Gurranhatta.

Calcutta night by night Writhes while the felines fight ; Spar, spoon and spit and smite, Chortle and chatter Brick-bats, etc.

“ Calcutta Day by Day ’ ’ Dreads her excursions,

While the S. P. C. A.

Sighs its aversions.

Daylight and dark attest Pussy’s a perfect pest.

Wipe her out, paw to crest, Spite her “ purr ” versions. Brick-bats, etc.

Daylight and dark attest Pussy’s aspersions.

How can the sleeper rest ’Till each one her shuns ?

9

End all her mewling pranks — Torture shell, Tom or Manx, And earn our lasting thanks By prompt immersions. Brick-bats ! Brick-bats !

Of what avail are they By night or day For those marauding cats ? Brick-bats !

The Empire, 15f/» December, 1906.

THE TALE OF A TOWN HALL.

List to the latest untwistable tale,

All about nothing at all,

Told of our moribund, obsolete, stale,

Jocular old Town-hall,

Low has it laughed as it lingers along—

When we’re all dead ’twill be still going strong.

Minto Fete was ended, and we hadn’t much to do,

A While our village green reverted to its customary hue ; And the papers lacked a topic to enthrill a jaded town,

For we’d gone up like a rocket and we felt the coming down.

Now the planetary systems that go twirling round in space Have a whimsical affection for a jaded human race, —

So the planetary systems cogitated on a plan

To evolve for our convenience both the moment and the man.

The moment was propitious for it happened at a point When we went about remarking that the times were out of joint. While we failed to catch the humour scintillating from the swag That they told us emanated from a pushful “ lucky-bag.”

The man too was propitious, which his name was Mr. Phelps ; He’d a project most ambitious, knowing every little helps,

And he set to work with vigour making all of us believe Him a coruscating comet with a town-hall up his sleeve.

And he told us, yes he told us, at the Hall Y. M. C. A.

(With his thumb inserted neatly in his waistcoat, by the way,) That our town-hall acted shocking tugging at the civic purse And whenever we improved it, why we only made it worse.

10

I cannot quite remember all the desolating stacks Of disclosures disconcerting that he reckoned up in lakhs To a mental memorandum on the mischief that was made When they placed that pillared chamber on the Western Esplanade.

Then someone went and grappled with a weirdly wild machine And the flickering town-halls wobbled upside down across the screen,

Thus we all of us experienced a too enchanting while,

And detested sister cities who could do the thing in style.

Till, at last, we struck a vision of a bustee coarse and crude,

Then the speaker with elation struck a proper attitude

And observed with pride parental as he pointed “ there you are,

There’s the site to build a town-hall, — which its in the Jaun Bazar.”

We tried, but couldn’t see it, though it may smell just as sweet Transmogrified from “ Jaun Bazar ” to “ Corporation Street ” — And remorse retained its victims when we passed a vote of thanks — For again we knew the feeling that comes on when drawing blanks.

With an air of stern decision that he nearly always wears At about the hour of mid-night when the’re burglars on the stairs, Mr. Allen then proceeded to enunciate the creed That a proper civic spirit must precede the civic deed.

We are watching for that spirit, we are glancing up and down,

Just to catch the inspiration of its presence in the town,

It’s a fascinating spirit and we wish ’twould come our way, —

Like the elephant that sauntered gently in on K. of K.

That the planetary systems all awhirling round about

Are still working to beguile us there is not the slightest doubt,

For at the next assemblage of the Council, so they say,

Mr. Phelps proposed a motion to donate the Hall away.

We had settled down to ponder on his sacrificing plan—

But the clock that struck the moment also closured out the man — For the planetary systems have a complicated trick Of slapping an extinguisher on mortal methods — slick.

So we waited the daynoomong till the meeting yesterday But Mr. Phelps, if present, didn’t give the Hall away,

A pound of tea costs money when you haven’t got the tin,

And who would take the Town-hall without the tea thrown in ?

11

There are morals lurking somewhere in this unimposing gup. —

Mr. Phelps will ne’er be Viceroy for he likes to wake us up —

Never cultivate the habit of donating Halls away. —

Don’t wait till six is striking to say what you have to say. —

Never head a public movement — but catch burglars when you can, —

And always miss the moment while you overlook the man : —

And never, never, never fan the civic spirit’s flame —

Leave the job to those who like it — and you’ll get there all the same.

The Empire, 14 th March 1907.

JOB CHARNOCK’S PROPHETIC SOLILOQUY.

From a fragment which ought to have been picked up near a marble slab on a club* gate-post in Chowringhee

TJ AIL to the last asylum !

Hail to the wanderer’s haven !

Hail to the rents that rise sky-high And the path that’s still unpaven —

Here hard by Boytaconnah,

Under Sealdah’s height,

All in the land of Mater am —

Is fixed the glorious site.

Hurrah ! for the great city That stretches many a mile —

Hurrah for gallant merchant-men Who passing make their pile : —

Thine, Briton, is the pilum,

Briton the pile is thine.

The ordered line of stock and share —

The corn and oil and wine.

There, where the leopard ranges On Howrah’s further shore The flare from endless flues shall rise For endless looms that roar : —

And here by miles of jetties Some day the dust shall foam ’Fore the bright eyes of wives and girls Whose berths are booked for home.

*The old Bengal Club, since demolished.

12

i

All hail ! to Clive’s stout pilum,

All hail ! the Income-tax,

All hail ! the chain of worth that winds From Madame Grand to “ Max” ; — Now by the scented Maidan The motor-bus is seen —

And clubs and pubs where tiger- cubs Make frolic on the green.

Blest, and thrice blest, the Briton Who sees Ind’s proudest day —

Who sees this big malodorous swamp Start on its wondrous way —

Here, ’neath this spreading peepul,

Bid me the future probe That booms the everlasting fame Of Capitalian Job.

Bengal : Past and Present, October, 1907.

THE LION (Not to mention the Unicorn).

A fragment of “ for Cotton Lore. ”

* “ Particularly noticeable on the east and west (of Government House) are the four fine gateways, surmounted by the figure of a lion.”

V OU know, of course, that pile sublime

Where floats a flag at Christmas time —

With sentries marching in and out While scarlet peons walk about ; —

Its where we go, quite free from cares,

To levies and the like affairs.

I’ve been and bought a volume rare From Mr. Eden in the Square ;

You’ve only got to give a look To find it a delightful book :

(I quote the passage that I love In neat italics up above).

Our paw was placed all comme il faut near F. H. Hathaway & Co.

The next one rested on the gate en face (that’s French) to Diamond Tait

And one right on the other side topped the third gate (prodigious stride !),

The last was on the gate to hand where Steuart Bayley used fo stand.

* From Calcutta Old and New by Mr. H. E. A. Cotton. The Lion on Govern¬ ment House must have faced either east or west.

13

The figure towered when quite at home High o’er the flag-staff on the dome —

(The sort of brute to keep your eye on And something like a British Lion).

The Unicorn, if built to scale,

Is not referred to in the tale,

Perhaps he found snug quarters near Astride the top of Belvedere.

(Oh, what a fine titanic fight

When they commenced to snarl and bite !).

Dear Mr. Cotton, H. E. A.

I’m sorry, Sir, you’ve gone away —

You might have let your stylo flow On that colossal beast, you know ;

If this perchance your eye should hit —

Do tell us what became of it.

(“One gate, one Paw ” was, so they say, The measure of an elder day —

But, pace Mr. Cotton’s try on, —

The rule is now “One gate, one Lion.”)

Bengal : Past and Present, October, 1907.

* THE VOICE OF THE VENGEANCE.

'THE Vengeance came down like a wolf on the fold

Where the engines were gleaming in varnish and gold,

And the reek of its wrath raged from near and from far When it held up the might of the great E. I. R.

With the strength of a Titan, secure and serene,

That line with its legions at sunset was seen,

Like a field that is fallow when harvest is mown That strength on the morrow lay withered and strewn.

For the voice of the Vengeance grew great on the blast,

And it called to the man in the cab as he passed,

And the heart of the engine waxed deadly and chill And its crank gave one turn and was silent and still.

* A formidable strike of drivers and others was in progress on the East Indian Railway.

14

For gone was the speed of the piston aslide,

Behind it there hissed not the steam of its stride, And the flare of the furnace flamed red on the rail Where it flashed out a halt to the on-coming mail.

And there sat the driver, excited and warm,

With the sweat on his brow and the dust on his arm, The signals all useless, the coolies all flown,

The luggage unlifted, the whistle unblown.

And the place that is Fairlie is loud in its wail For the chances are broke for the big Punjab mail, And the might that is motion on gauge that is broad Is melted like snow on the Main and the Chord.

The Empire, 23 rd November, 1907.

UNHISTORIC CALCUTTA.

(Quite unreliable.)

“ One Gate, One Slab.”

“ A somewhat belated copy of “ Bengal : Past and Present” has reached 11s, but it is well worth waiting for ; our only grievance against it is that it seems to have carried off our contributor “ Dak.” We experience a certain feeling of relief on hearing from him again as we were thinking of advertising. It is impossible not to admire the keenness of the Calcutta Historical Society. It simply bubbles with antiquarian zeal.” — The Empire.

“ /~\NE man, One vote !” they used to say ^ In my receding boyhood’s day,

But now those with the gift of gab Ejaculate “One gate, One slab !”

Go buy, there is no need to wait (The price pro tern : is just two eight)

Our “Was and Is” our “B : P. P.”

(Two nickels more per V. P. P.)

There was a city, fair and wide,

Inclined a bit to put on side,

For she was blessed by kindly fate With many a most imposing gate.

While some were arched, and some were brick And some were tall and others thick The passers by on ’bus or tram Observed that most were buff chunam.

&

15

There was a Viceroy, proud and prim,

And it was his peculiar whim To find a gate and then to dab Upon that gate a marble slab.

The habit grew as habits do,

And grew, and grew, and grew, and grew.

He’d rise up early, sit up late,

To go and decorate a gate.

He also had a pleasing plan To place a Hall on the Maidan,

He placed it here, he placed it there.

(Just now its somewhere in the air.)

He labelled with emphatic grace Each pretty statue’s granite base.

Such things to him, or small or great Were each profound Affairs of State.

Until at last there came the day When o’er the seas he sailed away,

And some, when he was lost to view,

Cried “Whaur’s Nathaniel ganged the noo ?”

All these were they who liked a gate Best unadorned, in nature’s state.

(I quite decline to take their cue And don’t accept their point of view.)

But other folk, the more refined,

Had feelings of less crude a kind,

And these with bubbling zeal cried “stop, —

His mantle’s tumbled on us, flop ! ”

We will not leave to luckless fate A single solitary gate,

We will not sing, nor laugh, nor dance Till every slab has had its chance.

While our lost leader sounds the call For “Oxford,” “Clive” and “Crosby Hall,” Let our exultant war-cry ring “ Darwaza hai ” — “the gate’s the thing!”

See where his dust dimmed banners rest,

Lo, on the wall his lance and crest.

Why should these war-worn emblems rot?

Go take them down and use the lot !

16

Out Firminger with “ B : P. P. ! ”

Up Huddleston and Rampini !

Ho “ Max ” and Madge, a frav, a fray — Cry “Dunbar ” and a “ J. de Grey ! ”

We mean to see this business through And do the thing in style, we do.

And that’s the reason, more or less Of our resounding C. H. S.

I’m very glad, A. J. F. B.,

To find you’ve not forgotten me. I rather like your neat remark, Accept this verse and keep it

DAK.

The Empire, 2 8th November, 1907.

CONCILIATION or Siipoiltn’ th’ Strouble.

(With apologies to the sharle of “ Ingolclsby. ”)

OCH ! Conciliation ! what termination ' To arl th’ bhotheration can wid ut compare ?

When Mist’r Engelken wid arl th’ Union men Likewise th’ Agint for a sittlemint did prepare.

’Tis, now you’ll see th’ Thraffic Manager Shpoilin’ th’ panic — allanah an’ asthore ! —

An’ sahibs an’ Committees wid hunks iv tied up chillies Arl shtandin’ round before th’ chamber door.

Th’ platforms lavin’, ne’er a wan a gravin’,

Lost time retravin’, down from Assansol ; —

Wid patter an’ palavar like sparrers made in Java —

Arl wishful to shtruggle up out iv a big hole.

Now there approaches fiv$ dozen coaches —

’Mid gineral clamour, — och ! ’twas mighty foine To see how aisy — nippy as a daisy —

Arl thim rogues iv ingines came galumphin’ down th’ line.

[6

17

Back to Howrah’s charums after th’ alarums,

Picknickin’ in spayshuls, carriages first class,

Open go th’ chamber gates to th’ bould delegates—

Iviry shplendid foightin’ bhoy turnin’ up ong masse.

First to Kellner’s arl retratin’ for an uninformal matin’ “Bhoys, here’s th’ Agint’ — sing a horotorio —

An’ if an owdacious thraitor on infarior orator Puts on frills at that sure I’d like to tell him so.”

There’s Mist’r Allen walkin’, like a Lord Mayor, talkin’

To Dumayne an’ Monteath, haroes iv renown ;

An’ gyards an’ ingine dhrivers an’ tillygraft arrivers Purradin’ in owld Clive Estreet, back agin in town. Thimsilves presadin’, Mist’r Dhring a ladin’,

The blessed Saints could tell us, who into th’ chair, —

An’ that foine fellow — fresh an’ free an’ mellow —

Darlint Mist’r Huddleston, th’ char gy -defair.

Sure, uts thim what rises airly dong le place de la Fairlie, Where th’ railway rulers meet to cogitate,

An’ sure uts Mist’r Dhring who has had us arl on shtring, Faix an’ uts himself we arl shud emulate.

Mist’r “Max” th’ burly — A. D. C. to Shirley —

In th’ press gallery you might persave,

But Engleken was missin’, chanst he’d gone a fishin’

After other gintlemin had koindly given lave.

See th’ porters, an’ th’ sorters, an’ th’ newspaper reporters, (Th’ “Journal” man a snippin’ iv pincils by th’ score); — Och ! I’ll be bhothered an’ entoirly shmothered To tell wan half of thim as was to th’ fore.

Wid our Corporation (salt iv arl th’ nation),

The Port Commission, an’ th’ Y. M. C. A.

But th’ European-Anglo-Defence-Assofandango Knew ut wasn’t whanted, so ut shtay’d away.

Mast’r Dhring (Saints bless him) och ! they did address him, Foine an’ mighty monarch, nuthin’ left to learn,

Like Csesar, great Agrippa, or Rooseveldt th’ skipper, Napowleon, th’ O’Cromwell, or Mist’r S. Thremearne.

Thin there was shoutin’ an’ a good store in spoutin’

(For its mysilf was sittin’ forninst th’ quality)

An’ Mist’r Dhring said “ thank ye for arl this hanky panky, *Its a toidy toime a cornin’ — I mean that C. I. E.”

* Happily it has since arrived.

18

Then the Foort salooted, an’ arl th‘ conferince scooted, Cryin’ “ Heavin save King Edward an’ our Royal Dliring !” Och ! an its mysilf shud live to be a hundrid Sure an its th’ proudest day I’ll iver sing.

Faix now I’ve inded fwhat I’ve invinted,

This mendacious narrative, widoubt fear or fuss,

Shtrikin’ dhrys th’ throttle, pass along th' bottle,

Faith, its mysilf — Och ! loro bhurmf — bus !

The Journal, 22nd December, 1907.

THE IMPASSE AND THE ELEPHANT.

( The opponents of the Victoria Memorial Hall Scheme now contend on the eve of defeat that the White Elephant, has arrived at an Impasse.)

rPHE Impasse and the Elephant Were sobbing hand in hand ;

They sighed like anything to see Their backers undermanned :

If Curzon’s Scheme were cleared away ’ They said, ‘ it would be grand ! ’

‘ 0 Experts, say a word for us !’

— The Impasse did implore —

‘ Make out the pile will sink a mile And buckle, roof and floor, —

We cannot do with more than three —

The fees don’t run to more.’

Then three fine experts hurried up The Scheme to shake or make,

They talked of strain and stress and truss, Of tie-bar, block, and break.

The Elephant said ‘thank you, but You’ve made my fore-head ache.’

‘ The time has come,’ the Impasse said,

‘ To talk of many things :

Of Levees, Balls, and Belvedere ’ —

‘The season always brings A pleasant change,’ the Hathi said,

‘To Engelkens and Drines !’

19

1 But wait a bit’, the Experts cried,

‘ Before we have our chat —

The three of us are of a miud —

Now, what d’you think of that ?

We cannot go and sink the show ;

So there you have it pat !’

‘If mighty “Max” wrote “Current Coin”

A million years of grace,

Do you suppose,’ the Impasse said,

‘ He’d engineer our case ?’

‘ I doubt it,’ said the Elephant,

And mopped his pallid face.

‘Those lovely texts that “Max” evolves Are. soothing to the soul’, —

‘They’re fine,’ remarked the Impasse, ‘but ‘ I wish he’d stick to Coal !

1 Or Jute,’ observed the Elephant,

‘ My friend — we’re in a hole !’

‘Don’t mention “Max”,’ the Impasse said, ‘ I’m feeling out of sorts ;

The air is thick, it makes me sick*

With expertised Reports, —

B. P. and G. have done for me,

And now we’ve E’s retorts !’

‘Just so ! just so !’■ the other said,

‘ You look a little cheap !

This talk of “Max” and wasted lakhs Has set me all a-creep !’

Then some-one called out ‘ Birdcage !’ and They tumbled in a heap.

'Poor, funny things,’ Lord Minto smiled When passing, so they say,

‘Won’t some one bring an ambulance To cart the pair away ?

And now for Marble, Bricks and Work, — They’ve had their little day !

The Journal, 12 th January, 1908.

20

“BONNIE DUNDEE.”

(An old song re-set.)

Mr. Winston Churchill, speaking at the Reform Club, Manchester, said his defeat was a heavy blow and the consequences would be grave and serious. It is understood that the Liberals of Dundee have telegraphed asking him to contest Dundee.”

r|',0 the Manchester merchants ’t was Churchill who spoke —

“Ma chances are doon, I’m a little bit broke —

So let each volunteer who loves Asquith and me —

. Cry ‘Aye !’ to the offer frae Bonnie Dundee !

Come pack up ma’ baggage, come pick up ma’ sticks,

Come book for the Border and ‘goodbye’ to Hicks.

I’ll hook it for Scotland and come back M. P. —

Oh its hey for the Border and Bonnie Dundee !”

Now see him dismounted, cock sure in defeat, —

Though his bills are unbacked and his party all beat, —

“ They chucked Balfour (douce mon)” says he so let it be —

We’re well rid o’ this toon — hech for Bonnie Dundee.

So male’ for the station as quick as you can —

Talc’ saxpenee and wire to Dundee ‘ I’m your man,’

For Asquith, Burns, Birrell, and little Lloyd, G.

Have not yet seen the last of their Winston (that’s ME).

There are streams beyond Irwell and votes beyond Forth,—

There is cotton doon south, but there’s whisky up north,

Dinna fash yoursel’, England, ye’ll no have to wait,

For this chiel will improve on that 4988.

Then toss the portmanteaus and traps in the van*

Macwinston MachurchilPs your ’sponsible man,

Ma ‘jiggin’s unsettled, but e’en let it be —

For I ken on’y step they may ca’ in Dundee !”

The Empire, April , 1908.

21

WAKING IT UP (Part I).

“ The Council of the European Defence Association met in strength yesterday afternoon to discuss a number of questions of no little importance to the European community, which it would not be prudent to publish at the moment. The members present were Mr. Lockbart Smith, Vice-President, Messrs. W. L. Simmons, and W. Smith, Vice-President, Mr. B. L. Williams, Honorary Treasurer, and Messrs. F. Burns, A. G. Prestow, B. H. A. Gresson, J. B. Straws, F. A. Talmony, W. A. Duncan, H. D. Wood, A. Taffing, H. W. S. Sparkes. It would be different to form a meeting of more largely and influen¬ tially representative men, and it may be assumed that this meeting would be as interesting as any could well be at this time. ’— (Literal transcription from the ‘ Englishman,' 30th June, 1908.)

tell the tale to town and tide —

^ Its waking up at length. —

The E. D. A. is yawning wide And going to go in strength.

And when you’ve told the glorious l(jup'

Go tell it all again, —

For Smith’s no myth, the Sparkes fly up, — In classic Mangoe Lane.

But things are passing strange indeed —

The times are odd to-day When Englishmen of English breed Direct the E. D. A.

Who, lest the hurtling bomb should boom And end their patriot game,

Sit round about the Council room In some-one-else’s name.

The President, as Lockbart higlit,

Made the proceedings go —

Sir Lock Smith, Bart., (no common knight)

Would sound more ‘ apropos .’

Can Simmons. L., be Simmons, J.

Our old and trusted friend ?

That Smith is “on” is good, but pray Where will his caperings end ?

Does B. L. Williams hide the head of R. L. Williamson ? — Did Mister Prestow come instead of him yclept Preston? — Did Gresson drop his R and gain by substituting B —

While J. B. Straws for J. B. Strain looked on approvingly? Topping as Taffing fearless tried One of his little larks, —

Though Duncan Sahib with proper pride Changed not, nor Wood nor Sparkes.

22

How did they to the meeting glide ?

How did they reach the place ?

In cloak of black with stealthy stride And mask envisored face ?

But none the less they meant to please — The ‘Englishman' is right,

It would be hard in times like these To meet a finer sight.

It would be ‘different’ to form A meeting so repre¬ sentative, or with hearts as warm For England, you and me.

WAKING IT UP.* (Part II.)

T fear I did the E. D. A.

A lamentable wrong In Tuesday’s ‘ Empire ’ (yesterday)

About its going strong.

The consequences I can’t shirk,

I did, I did defame In pointing out they went to work Each in a borrowed name.

To-day the ‘ Englishman, ’ I find,

Is rather rough on me,

And so I haste to ease my mind With this apology.

It lists to-day a different throng Of statesmen who were there,

And sets a new complexion on A half-and-half affair.

For thirteen climbed those endless stairs (A number dead to luck)

To regulate out state affairs And prove their patriot pluck.

And Hare Street hinted ten of them Flung down defensive gage Disguised as common fameless men.

(A weighty average).

* The Englishman shewed its appreciation by re-producing these verses in its own columns, and, on a writer calling himself “ Balk ” retaliating in verse, a news¬ paper controversy resulted.

23

And so good Harris never posed As “ Burns ” and never shrank By ‘ ‘ Talmony ’ ’ mis-diagnosed As Larmour (was it Frank '?)

0 ‘ Englishman ’, the old discreet ‘ The great, the good, ’ the ripe, —

0 ‘ Englishman ’ of March, Hare Street, Look to jmur linotype,

The Empire, 30 tit • June and 1st July, 1908.

ALL IN THE SAME SWIM.

1>EF0RE Bengal was cut at wish of potent Ourzon ^ Our Mookerjee was but an unexacting person.

About his own affairs he was discreetly quiet And never used the Squares for purposes of riot.

He ate his curry bhat and smoked his bubble bubble And seldom took to heart a real or fancied trouble.

But when Bengal forsooth was slit by ruthless razor He hinted things uncouth of good Sir Andrew Fraser.

A minced Bengal somehow confused his panorama : —

He engineered a row, and worked it, — tongs and hammer.

And whispered things out loud, and ran unhallowed presses,

And shocked the flawless crowd of sapient I. 0. S.’s. —

He stood upon a chair and vididly orated,

And didn't cut his hair, and went and agitated.

He'd yearnings by the score and cardiac palpitations,

And Mr. “ Max ” said “ lor ! what lofty aspirations !”

The ‘ Statesman ’ with regret indulged in wordy platitude, - Though the ‘ Exchange Gazette ’ maintained a placid attitude.

The ‘ News' blew hot and cold, but nothing in particular,

The ‘ Band Programme ’ still sold to waiting folk vehicular.

The ‘ Englishman ’ said “ flam, ” the ‘ Empire ’ heard and purred And ‘ Bande Mataram ’ went nap on every word.

And so it came to hap a martyr has arisen —

For Mookerjee, poor chap, got carted off to prison.

24

And Great Ones in the Hills, all calm, and cool, and jolly Called his eccentric frills “ a passing phase of folly. ”

Cool heads are sometimes right, the wise one pre-supposes They’ve made distinctly quite a proper diagnosis.

For Mookerjee will tire of his spasmodic rabies,

And soothe his patriot ire on succulent jellabies.

He’ll turn quite good and nice, and stop his curious capers, And cease to weigh out } nee for fire and fury papers.

He’s quite as fond of us, as we are fond of him —

So why this silly fuss ? “ We’re all in the same swim ! ”

Though should he kick the trace, — of folly no forsaker — Then it will be a case of “ Pull d — 1 and pull Baker. ”

The Journal, 5 th July, 1908.

RAMPINFS OFF TO-DAY.

“ Many crowded round to say good-bye to Sir Robert Fulton Rampini who finally retired last Thursday after forty-four years in the country. The follow¬ ing lines, composed on Howrah Station platform by that eminent versifier “Dak,” just before the mail left, very aptly sum up the general sentiments of regret which the retirement of so popular a personage everywhere inspired. ’’—The Journal.

O.OOD bye,- Sir Robert ! What so is is best —

^ A gallant course and now a famous rest, —

The rains are on and skies are leaden grey —

’Tis fitting so — for you are off to-day.

We’ll miss you in the Courts when lost to sight,

Our law’s chief lord, you kept its ’scutcheon white,—

We’ll miss you on the lawn with glass to eye What time the Apcar colours gallop by.

We’ll miss you standing in your place at Paul’s When choir and clergy make the chancel stalls, —

And from the corner peals the organ sweet While verger Hobson lots the unfilled seat, —

And from the stately Levee’s kindly crowd As, gloved, we brave the penned procession proud,

Till, Wellesley’s hall of marble Cfesars past,

We scan the few who flank the throne at last.

We’ll miss you while the “ Jianti ” tugs and strains Above the bridge her harnessed mooring chains,

And pants for parts that always more or less Yield learned copy for the C. H. S.

25

We’ll miss you, now the hour has come to part*

In social salons wise on Orient Art—

Or laughing in the close congested stalls At Zimmerraann and Bowrey “ taking calls. ”

Or of flower decked Pelitian board the soul Wit-pitted ’gainst the banter of our Cole. —

When Lobo, or the Dagmar stringed combine, Arouse the bumper brimming “ Auld lang syne. ”

And by the Bandstand where the horses wait Close clustered by the Strand’s orchestral gate, — Between the twilights, while the shadows grow For squealing Gordons swaggering to and fro : —

When William’s ramparts loom empurpled black Against the night-rack piled behind their back,

And river, road, and fort and firmament In day’s gold splash of splendid death are blent.

For four and forty years you ’ve fought with wrong And done the State high service all along : —

And won’t forget our Ochterlonian skies When sworded Edward bids “Sir Robert” rise.

Good bye, dear Sir, Calcutta’s heart’s adieu Goes to the man who’s battled and won through, — With right good will she speeds your homeward way— Adieu ! Adieu ! Rampini’s oft to-day.

The Journal, 30th August., 1908.

I KNOW A BANK WHERE BY THE WILD TRAM GOES.

( An old song re set.)

! I am the War Cry 0,

y ' In the Kubbu-ka-kargus van, —

In a couple of Nos. I stood alone And by No. VII, I ran :

And the Bankers all around Smiled an irreproachable smile That heightened the ioy of my* editor boy For I am so mercantile !

Mr. Cyril H. Ohara pkin.

2G

For he has a nimble pen

That can prance for an afternoon In turning out verse that might well be worse Or in etching a crisp cartoon.

And we’re all of us quite bedazed By his high oratorical style AVhen he dazzles our wits while our 1 Parliament ’ sits For he is so volatile !

0 ! I am the War Cry 0,

And he is the editor rare,

(I’ve a wrap serene of a sad sap green With a weird vignette of the Square.)

And we’ll both of us coruscate For a very perceptible while And scintillate smartly for M — 1 and H — y For they are so mercantile.

Yes we are so mercantile (In an imperturbable style) —

We’ll sin till late nicely and do it precisely For we are so mercantile.

Yes we are so mercantile.

The Mercantile War Cry ,

-October 1908.

GAZETTED '.

“ Captain F. M. L . e becomes Major and Lieut. A. E. Martlli j'-(herlh)?

loaebaT ountin,0.2.” — The “ Englishman,” 3rd October, 1908.

A hark ye th’ latist —

Th’ latist an’ greatist,

0 hark ye th’ latist, now do —

By th’ mountains o’ marnin’

He’s been that discarnin’

Sure now he’s purradin’ 0.2. !

His noime sure its Martlli He’s gettin’ on smartly,

He’s been decorated — hurroo !

An’ now he’s gazetted An’ feted an’ petted Y*(herlh ? IoacbaT ountin, 0.2. !

27

Och ! the C. V. R.’s boomin’

He’ll soon be assoomin’

Tlx’ nixt regimintal digrec —

AW 11 arl be a strummin’

On Martlli’s becomin’

Y-(herlh ? loacbaT ountin, 0.3.

So wave the shillelah

You’ve got to roise y-(herlhy If wishful to match him aloive — Some folks ignorantly Assert I’m no Santley —

But I’ll sing of O’Martlli 0.5. !

The Empire, 8th October 19U8.

THE NEW TOWN HALL.

At to-morrow's meeting of the Corporation, Mr. Phelps will move :

(1) That with reference to the surplus land fronting on Hogg Street visible from Chowringhee and the maidan, it is highly desirable that it should be built upon in a manner worthy of the neighbouring buildings now being erected.

(2) That a Committee be appointed to consider what action should be taken with regard to handing over to Government the present Town Hall for a sum that will enable the Corporation to erect another Hall on their own land.

(Whatever may be done or said The dear Town-hall is never dead.)

Mr. Phelps {Loquitur.)

TVTEN of the moment, men of might, A The hour is come, I’m ready, — So sink your differences to-night And take your fences steady !

We’ve got to fill that surplus bit Of India wasting sadly,

And, now I come to think of it, We want a Town-hall badly.

So men of mettle, men of might, — Just set yourselves to thinking WVI1 get the money, fill the site — And kill two birds like winking !

28

Our local Whiteley, none too soon,

A great big shop’s erecting —

(I saw the place this afternoon When I was round prospecting.)

I strongly urge you, one and all,

To go at once and view it,

And stimulate our new Town-hall To trv to live up to it.

There is no doubt about the site,

(I trust the fact you’re gripping)

As a Bon Marche's satellite The Town-hall will look ripping.

So Jaun Bazar’s “ le dernier cri , ” Don’t let the district fret us,

Let’s whole the Hogg and put to sea — Oh let us ! let us ! ! let us ! ! !

The Empire, 13 th October , 190S.

THE MERRY MILLINER.

(A reprint of Mrs. Eliza Fay's “ Original letters from India, ” with a preface by the Rev. W. K. Firminger is on the point of publication. )

/?|_OOD people all ! look out, I pray,

For ‘ ‘ Mrs. Fay ’ ’ is out to-day —

(Or else to-morrow,) so they say,

In dainty Thackeresque array.

Good people all ! now don’t be deaf To Mr. F. and “ Mrs. F.”

Go buy, go buy, and don’t go by, —

You may not get her by and by !

For “ Mistress Fay ” was quite au fait To all the wits of Warren’s day —

She flirted with sleek Macrabie —

And made a bonnet business pay.

(Man’s most momentous ’chievements stop Where’s Babel ? where that bonnet shop ?)

Upon her goods she used to stick a Card “ all in this row nine rupees, sicca.”

29

She even let such titles worry her As “ Ooltapoolta-Oolooburria,”

“ The Alipur,” “ La Respondentia,”

“ La Grand,” (but no, she didn’t mention her.) “The Talleyrand,” “The Sunda Bunda”

“ The Tolly toque — nullah secunda,”

“ The Aylmer,” and “ Le Dernier Ton ” —

“ As worn by La Belle Sanderson.”

(“ The Eardley Nort — ? That’s not a hat — Now who do you think you’re getting at ?)

She came to India overland —

(Don’t mix her up with Mrs. Grand)

But lucklessly became the prey Of Hyder Ali on the way —

(He never tried to Hyder though For Ali was quite comme il taut —

And no-one ever tried to cut her At Calicut or Kalicutta.)

It seems that she was Hyder’s loot At Calicut upon the route —

Her husband was of no repute And casually got the boot*

But Mrs. F. was far too cute To bother much about the brute.

(I hope I don’t the tale forget I haven’t read ‘ ‘ the letters ’ ’ yet.

Her letters — she was most sincere —

Misplace the site of Belvedere,

(And several too pedantic prudes Quote other inexactitudes —

The charge I fear is all too true.)

She said the house was quite bijou

Where Hastings lived with “ Number Two ” —

(A rather curious thing to do.)

(I think that it would be too bad To hold that Hastings play’d the cad. —

We mustn’t at our Warren scoff

For Marian’s spouse remarked ‘ e I’m hoff ! — ’ ’

(It was the funny way they had

When Hastings Impey was a lad.)

30

She saw (Oh bless her pretty eyes !)

Our Busteed’s bustee on the rise,

And noted every form and phase Of Busteed’s bustee’s little ways.

What time when all that smouldering fuel Blazed up that lead to Hastings’ duel —

When Francis met a sad mishap —

(The spot is found on Upjohn’s map) —

She heard “ the Begum ” with her hookah

Talk “ Charnock’s bride” — (they meant to cook her)

And reeled off quite a telling lot

Of journalese upon the spot —

The kind of stuff that could not fail To get into the Daily Mail,

Were Daily Mails invented then,

She flourished such a facile pen —

(The sort of folk who write like her Cement the “ Pax Britannica.”)

So “ Mistress Fay ” don’t fail to get For if you do you may regret —

She’s chaperoned quite tre's jolie By Mister Firminger, B. D.

She’s made her chaperon her own —

(Ring Thackers up by telephone)

Beneath (in plain or fancy dress)

The JEgis of the C. H. S.

I only wish her statues ran At intervals on the maidun. —

Which ever way you try to size her A girl of parts was fair Eliza.

The Englishman, 27 th October, 190S.

TO AN ABSENTEE LEADER.

( A lay of the Lobby.)

1\/I ISTER Senator D. was a sensible man,

^ A WTro, when the* Parliament House began Re-modelled his style on a popular plan —

As a full front-bencher and led in the van.

* “ Th# Calcutta Parliament. ”

31

But soon, too soon, so the minute-books say His feelings cooled off for the Y. M. C. A.—

And once when the House had a ‘ ‘ Ladies’ ’ ’ day —

He made it a matter of stopping away.

Did Senator D., as some might suppose,

Make off to the “ Saturday Club ” tableaux —

Forsaking the “ Ayes,” (there is no-one who knows,

To the ‘ ‘ noes ’ ’ who followed the party nose ?

0, Senator D., this gives one pain,

Don’t womanceuvre like that again —

Or the figure you danced it is perfectly plain May land us all in for the “ Ladies’ chain.”

Tableaux, or wherever an absentee goes On Parliament nights, are but frivolous shows —

And what would become of the Fen Boroughs If ever your quorumless capering grows.

Think on Horniman’s dulcet delectable tones,

And the nightingale numbers of jocular Jones,

Pat Lovett orating with banjo and bones,

And an absentee lobby whom nobody owns.

Dear Senator D., excuse my rubs, —

Do tug yourself off from say Saturday Clubs On Fridays, or people who thump on the tubs May let in the women or shut up the pubs.

For Coodwin can wrestle with liquified lakhs,

And Blair may be there with unmatchable “ Max,”

And Champkin may spout him perturbable fac’s All nicely assorted and done up in packs.

The season is with us, the speaker in chair,

The rendez-vous fixed on in Dalhousie Square,

The call of the lobby is loud on the air

If you cannot turn up, then, for goodness sake, pair.

Mr. Senator D., you can scoop in eclat

From the bench to the left of the suave Apcar—

So why should you frivol and frolic afar ? —

It isn’t the thing for a Parliament Star.

Come lay yourself out in the Parliament line —

You can postulate well, you can perorate fine. —

(One week we were “ eight ” and we might have been “ nine ”1 Do turn on the gas do, Duchesne, do shine.

32

HO ! IEROE.

(adapted.)

“ Although my recovery is much slower than I expected, T a n not without hope that I may again take an active part in public life.”

Mr. Joseph Chamberlain to the West Birmingham Liberal Unionist Associa¬ tion, 9th October 1908.

With all their banners bravely spread —

And all their armour flashiwj high —

Saint George might waken from the dead To see Mid-England'' s banners fly.

(Adapted.)

51 AIL to the cause that to triumph advances ! —

Hail to the Chief of the oncoming fray ! —

Long may the fire from his eye-glass that glances , Hearten to wisdom the sense of the day.

Heaven send him strength anew.

Earth lend him fighters true —

Mighty to reason, come friend or come foe,

While all of Englishmen Send up a prayer again Chamberlain ! Chamberlain !

Ho ! Ieroe !

Ours is no stripling chance caught in the moulding —

Kinging at Birmingham — London in shade —

Though the whirlwind hath stripped many seats of his holding!

Not yet shall the star of our Chamberlain fade.

Moored to the Midland rock,

Proof to the battle shock —

Firmer he roots him the louder it blow,

North, south, and east and west Stand to their loved and best Joseph of Birmingham, —

Ho ! Ieroe !

Proudly our banners have flapped their undoing (Birmingham’s cheers to our slogan replied) : — Manchester, Peckham, are smoking in ruin —

And the Btalwarts of Asquith are whelmed in the tide,

33 [c

Clifford and “ F. C. G.”

Blanch at our contumely —

Winston, the Welshman, and Hardie and Co. —

Turn the whole rabble out Lift the exultant shout Joseph (and Austen too)

Go Higher Joe.

Poll voters, poll, for the death of the dumper,- Strain all your powers in prosperity’s cause —

Make winning on winning a mandate — a thumper —

For free handed trading not one sided laws.

Onward to victory —

Ever your earnest cry —

“Wage for the workers, and work !” (thanks to Joe). Come again, Chamberlain,

Lead as of old again, —

England is true to thee,

Ho ! Iei'oe !

The Journal , 8th November, 1908.

THE THIN END OF THE WEDGE

A newspaper suggestion by “ Dale ” to build a new Town-hall, on the model of that at Birmingham, on the site occupied by General Outram’s Statue in Chow- ringhee, met with approval in many quarters.

F like to cogitate upon

The ins and outs about the hall — _

To prove the fro and con the con And end the business once for all.

So here you have my little dream For working out a likely scheme.

f

Sell Jaun Bazar at hammer’s fall For fiats and suites, all neat and nice, —

And hand the coin and tottering hall To Government — that’s my advice —

And set the Corporation free Of all responsibility.

\

The new L.-G. would duly plan

And build two halls (and there you are) The one upon the big maidan —

The other North of Bow Bazar.

And when the bills were paid and done There’d be two halls instead of one.

At just the cost we’d have to face For one upon the scented site That hurtles near to Hogg, his place,

Which Mr. Phelps thinks quite all right. And further more I beg to state —

A flat is apt to yield a rate.

The site and hall in Esplanade Would sell to build the maidan pile.

And Jaun Bazar for sale displayed Would all pan out in decent style.

(The Indians in the open meet And do not want a closed retreat.)

The Outrarn site is far the best,

(By Outram you get “ Out o’the tram ”) The clubs are close, from east and west The world, his wife, and children cram To hob and nob and shoulders rub Just opposite the U. S. Club.

I strolled on the Marine Parade Of Slowcum-Podger-Super-Mare,

At ninety-something in the shade,

And found it rather gurritm, there ; — Thought I, across the beach I’ll skip And in the briny have a dip.

I met a curious haggard man Of haunted and dejected mien.

From whom I hired a bathing-van (He called it a “ marine-machine.”)

I said “ cheer up !” “ confide in me !” “0Whatever can the matter be ?”

“ Thim swimming baths,” he made reply, — “ Oop theer oopon tha ’Esplanade,

Will drain tha bloomin’ ocean dry And swraller oop me bloomin’ trade.” — He smote his brow and shook his head ; ‘‘Tha thin ind of tha Widge !” he said.

35

I saw he was of sense bereft

To cherish such a childish whim,

And said the sea had water left Enough for baths as well as him.

“ Thim thin idged baths will by and by ” (Said he) “ mop arl the ocean dry !”

I strolled along Chowringh.ee wide Beside the oval island site —

Where General Outram takes a ride And looks as though his horse would bite. I said, said 1, “ whate’er befall, —

Why that’s the place for our Town-hall.”

I met a busy public man,

Who said he'd made a scheme his own To formulate a little plan And kill two ‘ chirrias ’ “ with one stone (I call the people “ skinny geese ”

Who grudge poor birds a stone a-piece.)

Said he “ we’ve got the land (our own)*

‘ ‘ Shop soiled, a bit upon the shelf,” — And then he talked about that stone —

(I’m economical myself.)

‘ ‘ The Hall — the Land in Jaun Bazar! — You chuck the stone and there you are ! ”

I told him of the island site With Outram prancing like a Turk —

He said that most distinctly, quite,

The island project would’nt work. —

I answered “ Why ?” He shook his head

” The thin end of the wedge !” he said.

1

I said “ good gracious, my good man !”

(I talk like that when feeling sore)

M There’s miles and miles of good maidan —

‘ ‘ The island gone — there'd miles be more “ The thin end of the wedge,” he cried,]

” Is just the thing we can‘t abide!”

3G

I said “ you want to stick the kali Upon a site that wouldn’t do — ”

“ It wouldn’t, wouldn't do at all ! — ”

He said “ Right 0, the same to you !” And then we both began to shout.

(I left him there to think it out).

The Empire, 13th November, 1908.

HOSPITAL SUNDAY.

22nd November, 1908.

rpHE town was sad and the children cried,

For the night was long and the heavens afar. The Angel of Pain spread his pinions wide And the pale-steed passed with his sable car.

The healer worked, as the healers do,

With a hand all love and a heart full sore —

For ever the need of the great town grew And ever seemed lesser the healer’s store.

The Reaper garnered his meed of gain,

And the watcher prayed while the worker died— ’Neath the brooding wings of the Angel Pain — And that is the reason the children cried.

And the preacher paused in the story old (The white robed man with the saintly look)

For he knew that he told what is good to be told From the sky-born stores of the glorious Book.

“ Give of your plenty — 0 ye with the hoard !”

“ Give of your poverty ye who are poor !”

“ Give — for the pestilence walketh abroad ! ”

“ Give — for destruction awaits at the door ! ”

“ Give, while ’ tis day lest ye ne’er may know” —

“ Give, while ye may or ye ne’er may taste” —

“ The joy of ’suaging another’s woe ’’ —

“ The strength that comes of a self abased ! ”

So the teacher ceased and he closed the Book,

Then turned to the Christ on the painted pane Where the glad sun swept to the last lit nook In a torrent of gold o’er that radiant fane.

37

And the healers battled with death and disease With a cheerier, heartier, vigour I wot Because of the helpers who learned on their knees What the good man told of a self forgot.

The Englishman, 23rd November , 1908.

THE DREAM OF KURZON KHAN.

(Another report is shortly expected concerning the Victoria Memorial Hall.)

I N Kalkuttah did Kurzon Khan A stately wonder-dome decree :

Where half the sacred maidan ran —

In columns measuieless to man.

In nineteen nothing three.

Where twice two miles of verdant ground With walks and drives were girdled round :

And there were golf-greens bright with tinuous frills Where blossomed many a Haskell bearing tee ;

And here a race-course redolent of ills Regarding sunny lawns of raillery.*

But oh, that long romantic grovef which slanted Down the green turf toward the hidden river !

A pleasant place, as lonely and enchanted As e’er beneath cathedral bell was haunted

By maiden waiting for her prayer-book’ d loves':

And from this grove, with ceaseless turmoil seething,

As if the earth in stick-fast-bricks were breathing,

A mighty platform momently was forced :

Amid whose swift (now interrupted) burst Huge fissures faulted to resounding hail Of grinning chaff beneath the mocker’s flail ;

And past these prancing bricks at once and ever Was flung by momently the sacred river.

For miles meandering with a mazy motion By hat and g hat the sacred river ran,

Then reached the Sund-Bunds measureless to man,

And sank in tumult to a mudless ocean :

And ’cross this tumult Kurzon heard from far “Max”-estral voices ’jaculating Wah!

* A newspaper discussion was going on about the dividing of the lawn in front of the grand-stand by a railing, thus creating two classes of public spectators.

+ The selected site of the Hall is that of the avenue leading from the Cathedral towards the Hughli.

38

The promise of the dome at leisure Floated somewhere in the skies ;

While was heard the mingled measure Of the “wherefores'?” and the “whys?” It was a miracle of sound advice A marble-wonder-dome with paves of price.

A damsel with a dulcimer (India symbolised) I saw :

It was an Anglo-Indian maid And of our dull delays she played,

Singing of Queen Victoria.

Could I recall unto you Her sympathy and song,

To such a deep disgust ’t would woo you That to plaudits loud and long,

We would build that dome so fair,

That marble dome those paves of price.

And all the world should see them here, And none would cry “ Beware beware ! Her flashing eyes, her floating hair ! ”

W eave Reports around it thrice ? —

Oh, stay your pen and know instead That we upon Reports are fed And want the Hall. We’ve got the pice.

The Journal , 29 th November, 1908.

TO G. E.

(A rejoinder to “ TO MEN ” by “ G. E.” in the Empire of the previous day

AV7 ELL put, fair lady, neatly writ —

' ’ Mere man collapses like a jelly Before a style that breathes the wit That stamps the caste of M. Corelli —

You’ve told us all creation’s gup With Bobbie Burns to back you up.

We know we’re Nature’s “coarser clay” Spell-bound before a plaster Venus —

All faulty, rough, and strange (you say)

With scarce a shred of sense between us.

Of course we’re Nature’s sole misfit —

But is it well to harp on it ?

39

You say He “ made fair woman last”—

He did, lie did (the saints forfend us),

She’s lasted through the ages past —

Her staying powers are just tremendous —

“ Shaped from a purer fairer clay.”

(Mud man, of course, must needs obey.)

When Nature tried her prentice best And fangled forth our callow race —

While Adam proved a week-end jest —

Eve popped up with a smiling face —

And vexed his soul with chaff ad lib Concerning an elusive rib.

That rib’s the rub that Bob forgot When singing of ‘‘the lassies, o” —

If Adam was a sorry lot

’Twas scarce for Eve to tell him so.

Man’s merits wear a trifle thin,

Then why, fair lady, rub them in ?

It seems to some but shallow good To wide the gulf that parts the sexes —

To buz about in waspy mood And vex the chap who pays the exes.

Though warped the way and wild the weather The Eden pair should pull together.

’Tis well to con the storied page On snake and fruit in old Genasis —

To plumb its lessons and to gauge Their trend on philosophic basis, —

Th’ evicted malli and his wife

Went out — but ‘hand-in-hand’ — for life.

Go weave a “ garland of love lays ”

Or tune your lyre to “songs of passion” — And lead us by Gladysian ways

In well approved expressive fashion, —

Our faults are due to ‘ ‘ structural ’ ’ tricks So why come down on us like bricks ?

The Empire^ \<6th December , 1908.

40

TO WINSTON IN THE OLD LION’S DEN.

(See also 0. S. in Punch, 20th January, 1909.)

“ I do not suppose that a great city has ever fallen into the grasp of such a narrow-minded set of politicians. In their political opinions we can discover no single generous principle of government or philosophy, nothing but push, grab and caucus from start to finish. They have deserted one party to pervert the other.”

(Mr. Winston Churchill at Birmingham.)

A ND this from you in that same Midland hall Where he was wont to voice his city’s aim,

Her wise to rally, — trumpet-tongued, to call Her sons to duty in fair wisdom’s name.

From you, who reap the red apostate’s meed,

A turncoat babbler when all’s said and done,

You, officed blusterer of grabbing greed,

You, advertiser arch of Number One.

‘ ‘ No single principle of generous aim Has marked his course encaucussed from the start” — From you pert pervert of chameleon fame,

Of tongue to cheek and outspread hand to heart.

As child, I saw him on the hustings stand In ’68, a stripling fighter fit,

By Bright lion-headed, and an eager band,

His townsmen, — scan the record they have writ.

A fungus town, far stretched a vestried sore, —

To England’s shame, — to vice and ills a prey,

The young lion furious raised resistless roar And set his teeth to gnaw the wrong away.

Then lesser lions soon ranged them to his trail To hound a jackal pack to outer night —

And fur flew freely where the young lion’s tail Lashed long and lordly in resounding fight.

And so it came that evil fell away,

Right ruled, and bumbled dotage toppled slain — Mid-England’s city crowns the land to-day —

And where’s the cur to snarl at Chamberlain ?

I saw him, Mayor, first don the City’s chain,

I saw him voted to the School-board chair,

And twice the Mayoral call he heard again E’er yet I saw him borne to Westminster.

41

And then from Palace-yard his roar was caught In deeper, fuller tones of mellowed age, —

And twice his vantage reckoned but as nought

He stepped from power to whiten History’s page.

And, you, the sucking-dove who roars amain, —

So that men laugh to hear a pigeon shout,

And tell each other “ let him roar again !”

Nor care, like you, what ’ tis you roar about —

Succeed, say some, to starred viceregal robe —

And look, enthroned, to weave the Orient’s fate,

The keyless wards of inmost East to probe And swing the portals of her hingeless gate.

T’ unmesh the web that taxed a Canning's skill,

That random Ripon failed him to unlace,

That all but broke steel-handed Dufferin’s will.

And harassed Curzon from his pride-of-place.

This you essay, with shrill impetuous cry (Fine prelude to hot youth’s adventurous pose)

Anent the strengthless lion with glazing eye All battle-broken at a gallant close.

Well, well, you’re young, and words are but as wind, They fill a Reuter’ d column gaping wide.

When once you’ve left the Asquith crowd behind And passed the cut that leads to Suez side —

You’ll yet have days and days to con the tale Of India’s past, so read and reading wonder,

And then may-hap ’t won’t be without avail For India, greeting on th’ Apollo Bunder.

If, when, put off viceregal harness high,

You go where Rulers go, who go and come,

You’ve done for great Calcutta, by and by,

A tithe the good “ Joe” did for “ Birminggum ” —

We won’t enlarge upon your “narrow mind,”

Your “ push and grab,” nor fling your failings at you, To your full lack of generous instincts blind In Winston Park we’ll raise a Churchill statue.

1 st February, 1909.

42

THANKS —BANKS !

“At present Mr. D’Cruz’s motto seems to be ‘ cui bono ?' I would recom¬ mend as a change ‘ nil desperandum.’ ”

We take the above neat little philosophic tabloid from Dr. Banks’ latest minute on the New Market. It is, however, susceptible of a wider application !

rPHOSE views A On Cruz

The Empire, 4 th March, 1909.

\

/

Make pleasant news Now times are out of joint — He’s made a hit With grace and grit And touched d’cruzial point. He recommends To all his friends

A change of Civic motto

“ CUI BONO ?” NO !

That’s quite de trop We’ll out another trot — o. Whate’er time bring It’s now the thing At last, at length (ad tandem) —

In a good cause to sing aloud In a good cause and a big crowd To shout

“NIL DESPERANDUM

The sun, the moon and asteroids Think well of Dr. B.’s tabloids — With peckers up they play the game And go on going — just the same — The while he bangs the big boss drum To advertise his fine nostrum.

So don’t despair, —

Keep on your hair, —

In life’s bright lexicon for sale There’s never no such word as FALE.

With wonder wrought The mighty thought Springs from his cerebellum.—

It ought to be chalked up all round

43

Wherever billstickers abound —

It ought to out-flame at night From lofty Ochterlony’s height —

(Or else engrossed on vellum.)

But let come what Come may, his mot —

— to’s not

Half bad, so go it —

Buck up, buck up, forbear to frowDj Let care cark on, bid worry drown, We’ll ne’er be down About our town Or, if we are, won’t show it, —

(Not if we know it).

The Empire, 4 th March, 1909.

LOOKING NORTH.

(The previous issue of the Empress contained (wo views of the Cathedral and Government House from the Ocliterlony Monument “ looking north.”)

A ! Empress of my hearth and home —

(“ My hearth ” in Ind’s a mere convention)

I’ve bound you as a serial tome Year in, year out, I’m proud to mention ;

Whate’er betide you gaily thrive,

Your last (June 2) came welcomed gladly, —

Until on lighting on page 5

I found myself unsettled badly.

I snatched a tope from the rack

And started off on Shanks his pony —

(A qtiite convenient sort of hack)

To climb the lofty Ochterlony :

Though stairs are things I can’t abide When bats abound begrimmed and burly —

(It’s rather dark when you’re inside And everything goes twirly whirly).

The top at last as morning broke

To Phoebus’ call (he’s always game for it)

I took a dial from my poke —

(A compass is the better name for it).

44

Though perched above familiar ground

The north (you name) seemed more than misty While panoramas all around

Just like the stairs went twisty wisty.

There southward gleams a gothic spire (Your north just gives of Paul’s a hinto)

And, here, those walls we all admire That cost a mint and shelter Minto.

And there the spot Macaulay knew

Where club the cream of all the best to-day,- - With facade bulged a quaint askew j Not as ’of yester — but of eschterday.

By Empire Bandmann’s dome arise The Hotel Grand’s aspiring glories That eat the earth and cloak the skies At something less than fifteen stories.

While a Bon Marche $ scaffold show Gives hope of flat at decent rentum And smacks of bargains row on row Each redolent of eight per centum.

Lo, the Hogg market’s clockless height Our new rialto’s campanille,

(’Twill later be illumed at night Whate’er the weather grill or chill -y.)

And t’other tower where ediles sit

When Wednesdays yield a floor of fussing {The Empress off descants on it —

See ’tolycus Autolycussing.)

Where statues dot the village green (That boasts a vista casuarina)

Is Bobs-in-bronze erect serene

(Though ‘ ‘ Max’ ’ asserts he might be cleaner). And far on the horizon’s brink Rise mystic corrugated oddities —

And men there be who sometimes think It was a hall, but don’t know what it is.

All these I saw from where I stood —

Yet gazing to the north you tell of,

Could nowhere trace the prospects good You evidently think so well of. ^ ’ '

45

‘ ‘ The east is east and west is west’ ’

Writes Kipling casually cynical,

That south’s not north is now confessed, — I’ve proved it from the maidan’s pinnacle.

The Empress, July, 1909.

THE PILL, THE PILL, AND NOTHING BUT THE PILL.

(Mr. Beechara, the celebrated pill-maker, has contributed £.100,000 to the National Opera House Fund.)

rpO save “ the Duchess” * from the Yanks A hat went on the rounds,

Till some-one earned the nation’s thanks With forty thousand pounds.

This forty thousand pounder will Feel small now its about That Beecham of the wondrous pill Has come and cut him out.

The cork-screw’s mightier than the sword, —

The pill outvies the two,

For lakhs from laxatives afford A new found point of view.

The man unmoved by music’s spell — By concord of sweet sounds —

Forgot his stratagems to tell

Three hundred thousand pounds.

Sweet are the uses of advert —

— isment, so all may hope, —

Though bitter-sweet the tastes that flirt With aloes and with soap.

When II Dinora's ‘ ‘ Shadow Dance ’ ’

The proud proscenium thrills,

La Diva owes her happy chance To some-one-else’s pills.

* Holbein’s portrait of the Duchess of Milan in Trafalgar Square.

4G

For rhubarb rules the boards at last (It’s now a settled fac’)

And wags the stick for Wagner’s cast,

Or Merry Offenbach.

Taraxacum up-lifts the roof,

Its voice a riftless lute—

Podophyllin requires no proof With note beyond dispute.

The singer struts the tuneful stage Or lolls between the wings —

A marionette in puppet age When pilules pull the strings.

Fling wide the light, in dance gyrate Nor let the baton drop —

Bid all the world appreciate The nation’s chemist’s shop ; —

The Pill of Fancy and of Fate Moves operatic man —

Till regal Death manipulate His curtained rat-a-plan.

Three hundred thousand pounds planked down For buskins and for socks ! —

(A stall should cost us half-a-crown, —

A box — a (juinea-a-hox) .

The Journal, 25 tk July, 1909.

ONE CHANCE LEFT.

OEUTER wires from Copenhagen * Of the turn that things have taken,

How that Dr. Cook has travelled To the hyperborean Pole, —

And we feel a trifle gravelled Now the mystery’s unravelled That so long has vexed the cockles of our speculative soul.

47

For a person’ ly conducted Cook has blown a Yankee trumpet On a spot John Bull intended Should be gramaphoned by him ; —

Out across the floes he wended Till the quest was neatly ended And he’d spoofed us fair and squarely of a cherished little ~7liim.

He drove jolly dogs in legions To the unenticing regions

That surround the icy packses Where the polar bears reside, —

And disturbed the polar axis To elucidate the paraxis

Of an agitated compass when you reach rhe other side.

By the northern blast unhampered Round the panorama scampered Game to rouse the admiration Of a smiling Rooseveldt ; —

And we make our salutation To the star-bespangled nation

For we’re sure he’d not have done it had bethought of what we’ve felt.

Beneath the red Aurora That illumes the Arctic flora Bears, dogs, and seals were gracious. —

Though it must have been a shock To the fauna unvoracious That patrol the landscape spacious When that party came prospecting from the wilds of An¬ na tok.

Cook returned to Upernivik And evoked a welcome civic From the local Corporation With the fire-brigade and mace ;

And Bull met the information With the terse ejaculation

That he reckoned Upernivik was a silly sort of place.

48

A Frenchman flew the Channel With his head tied up in flannel

And transformed our island holding Into a peninsula —

And one tends a bit to scolding At the prospect that’s unfolding Of the interloping foreigner a-taking things too far.

The Frenchman flew to Dover,

And the Polar boom is over,

And William slapped Zeppelin On the back in gay Berlin —

While the Sunday-schools were yellin’

And the petrol-tanks a-smellin’

To the “ Hochs !” asseverated ’mid the Deutscher-throated din.

Now there’s little we can tackle For Lieutenant Mr. Shackle- ton has got to turn attention Toa“ Dreadnought ’ ’ for a-while.

It’s a horrid thing to mention But it seems the fixed intention Of the Yank and Frank to bluff us and to cut us out in style.

May gallant Cody winging On to Manchester be bringing Luck to British aviation Damped by plucky Bleriot. —

And a later wired narration May deny the confirmation

Of the story of the dog-teams and the brace of Eskimo.*

Yet Bull may cease repining That his chances are declining To bewitch the world to wonder And restore his sinking star, —

Let him ruminate and ponder On the glory waiting yonder

For the man who probes the reaches of the newer New Bazar.

* It did.

49

Make your will out most minutely, *

Name your exors. most astutely.

Ere you brave the vista yawning *’

Dear to Bertram, Banks, and paint, —

Fame hunting heed no warning —

But just go there some fine morning And you may emerge a hero — only then perhaps you mayn’t.

The Journal, 5th September 1909.

THE APOTHEOSIS OF THE ANT.

T T was a wily White Ant that I saw a-passing by —

A personable White Ant with a twinkle in his eye, —

I knew him in a moment for I’d heard of him before —

A comprehending creature with discriminating maw.

His the air of calm absorption of the folk who ever win,

He never sticks at obstacles but always takes them in,

And he dwells in sleek seclusion with the duftries and the cats In the mild and mildewed precincts of the Secretariats.

Precursor of Postponement, the Apostle of Delay,

(You should always do to-morrow what you ought to do to-day),

He deals in devastation and dabbles near and far

In the eating up of records till we don’ t know where we are.

We patter and we potter and we postulate and pose With a fundamental leaning to a shelving at the close,

Then we shunt the serried schedules with a qualified demur To the duftries and the kittens who expostulate and purr.

You may see in him the symbol of the “ why ?” of Ind’s decay — The emblem of progression in a retrogressive way — •

Our motto “ words not action” we but seldom “ touch the spot,” Then we file our ‘ ‘ resolutions ’ ’ and he gobbles up the lot.

The Tiger stood for India in far off days that were —

A necked heraldic Tiger with a dominating air ;

Though long there’s been a better beast to represent our style — That plodding pushfnl potentate — the penetrating Byle.

50

Forget the tawny Tiger and the Byle with crumpled horn, And pass the mad Mosquito by with supercilious scorn — To hail the wily White Ant with his desiccating charms As the right heraldic fellow to surmount our coat-of-arms.

In London’s central city where the omnibuses range A cricket tops the summit of the lofty Royal Exchange ; — Let us decorate the apex of our Ochterlony high With a wily Ant prancete proper up against the sky —

A warrantable White Ant with a twinkle in his eye.

For why ? Our wants are many, we may get them by a fluke When Winston’s an Archbishop with Lloyd George a Duke.

The Journal, 12th September 1909.

CHERANGI AD LEONES.

(During the last few days the central dome of the New Bengal Club has been flanked by a pair of Lions.)

/"\H, we are the couple to lighten

The gloom of the town in the rains,

To cheer up Chowringhee and brighten

The world with our might and our manes, — Unassailable lions of Calcutta —

The latest and greatest on view,

A remarkable brace Of unqualified grace Of the local and leonine zoo.

To lounge on a ledge at your leisure By a wonderful dome in the sky. And laugh at the place is a pleasure To folk who are built to live high. — As stuck-up and stucco’d observers Who posture and pose as they ought — • Why each of us thinks He’s a classical sphinx And tries to live up to the thought.

51

Oh shade of the author of “ Vanit” —

‘ ‘ — y Fair’ ’ how the motors fly by,

With the street at our paws we can scan it — Twin critical cynics on high. —

Oh, shades of Macaulay and Thackeray, We’re the pride and the talk of the town — An ineffable pair With our nose in the air,

And we never intend to come down.

The inferior lions of the city,

Poor fellows, are left in the lurch,

Our salaams with a fathomless pity, From a quite unapproachable perch. Apt Apcar is rigid with envy,

And Allen is off to Bombay,

And Bertram and Banks And the scrawlers and cranks Are thinking of creeping away.

There is no-one, no no-one can teach us — They may post us effusions in packs, No preacher nor prophet can reach us, Not even unmatchable “Max.”

Who tilts at us tilts to confusion,

E’en Galstaun would ride for a fall, Though stiff in the joints We can give them all points For we are the lions on the wall.

On Kellner’s one gloats witn precision,

To Paul’s is the other’s outlook,

And the flippant in waggish derision

Have christened us “Peary” and “ Cook.” For we are the lions of Calcutta,

Of the hour and the town as a whole,

At the hub of the club We can pull off each rub —

The lions at the top of the poll.

The Journal, 3rd October 1909.

CAVE CANEM.

(A Dog and Bull story.)

Noble Spaniel (answering to the name of “ Marquis.”) “ They tell me that as a sportsman I ought to tackle this thing (the “People’s Budget”), but I’m not at all sure I shan’t let it pass. ” (Vide Punch, Cartoon, 6th October, 1909.)

( Spaniel Loquitur.)

\ dog’s chance, Punchius, you have put it short In your inimitable way cartoony, —

This little dog’s not laughing at such sport This afternoony.

I am “ Sir Oracle,” and when I ope My lips to bark why then let no bull bellow ;

(He ’ll take the hint and go away I hope

The hulking fellow.)

I hold the realm within my hollow’d paw —

The Chamberlains and Chaplin love to coax me,

And Rosebery rubs me up and down with awe

And Balfour strokes me.

End me or mend me ! What a beast to turn !

Massed maunds of muscle, how shall I get round him ?

Horn, hoof and hide with mischief all aburn —

The brute, confound him !

I’ll — I’ll be muzzled if I ever struck A tighter corner since I took to mauling,

Each dog’s a day to call his own, worse luck,

This day’s appalling.

Look at his head, and hear his horrid snorts And watch his tail a-lashing and a-larking,

By Sirius, it’s serious this sort,

Its no use barking.

My bark’s worse than my bite he seems to say,

— And doesn’t care a straw that I am furious,

The other bulls I worried ran away, —

This one’s so curious.

Though but a spaniel I have done my share Of biting and of fighting for my feeding —

I sent a “ Temperance ” steer for change of air —

A dog of breeding.

53

And when the ‘ * Education ’ ’ oxen came My coronet ! I gave their tails a twisting,

We’ve heard the last of what d’you call the game — Passive Resisting 1

But here’s a whopper, strolled from Asquith’s farm,

A braggart, bullying, blundering, bungling “Budget/* No dog’s a chance in atmosphere so warm —

I think I’ll trudge it —

With tail between my legs and nose in air, — ■

Let Art and Commerce, Laws and Learning die, —

This beastly ‘ ‘ Budget ’ ’ isn’t my affair

(He’s following by the by.)

What shall I do ? He’s coming on behind,

Slap through the hedge and leave the blatant Bos up 1 Or should I turn and face the beggar blind ?

Its just a toss up !

24 th October 1909.

LONDON THE KEY. 1

“ I remember Lord Beaconsfield's memorable truth that the ‘ Key to India ic London’ an l thvt the control of the destinies of India rests largely with the qualities of the British race. Loud Rosebery at Edinburgh. 19th October

1909.

HPHE truth, my Lord, the truth and nought beside, The deed-rock of our rule that can’t be undone, The Lord of Hughendon’s much mouthed aside-—

“ The key to India — London.”

You take us back to days when England led The world and said she always meant to do it ; Strong Egypt rose, a Lazarus from the dead, — ■ Constantinople knew it.

When war-flushed Russia trained her guns to break Or bend the Turk to Muscovite aggression,

’Twas Beaconsfield who kept our wits awake Within and out of session.

54

Broke Gladstone at the “ bag and baggage,” game, Curbed Bright with “ perish India,” glib precursor Of Chamberlain of “toil-less lily” fame —

Each a Lloyd-George, or worser.

When pulpits shook to platform’d rabble rot Like “ force no remedy, ” and mob ran riot,

He put it “ shall we rule, or shall we not ?” —

Its “England Up” be quiet!”

Apt to outphrase the rhetorician’s flight —

The sophist with verbosity o’erladen —

He singly won for England in a night The road that flows to Aden.

Our thanks, my Lord, for this the latest pearl Ploughed from the lonely furrow where you wander,

A lustre’d relic of the wizened Earl, —

Word-gem on which to ponder.

In this mad whirl of mingled froth and guile,

Of “ mended-council-acts ” to make one shudder. You’ve re-unlocked the key we’d lost awhile —

Revealed where swings our rudder.

London the pivot of the Empire still,

Calcutta suburb, as Quebec or Dulwich,

That’s the idea to make and fill the bill —

The overflow and ullage.

World-spread from Westminster, an Empire firm For right and might, there’s no escaping from it,

Its on the way, though lesser folk may squirm,

Like Halley’s sky-spread comet.

Let India feel the facts the fool would hide,

Quench quail, stem storm, and foil the prattling paniccer, Strong armed within stout borders, flinging wide,

The Pas Britannica.

One with the West she, voyaging, heads for Light, Bulwarked to seas that crush, to skies that scatter.

Self tillered drifts to red chaotic night. —

— The moral of the matter. —

This text is ta’en from thoughtful Rosebery’s speech,

“ The Key to India — London ” — think, apply it — •

The application isn’t far to reach Its wisdom — who’d deny it ?

55

- nwim — " in — ■ t r r I ■■I ■■■■ I

We’ve half a million sterling, less or more,

To build a “ marble dream ” to Ind’s laudation Listless Calcutta thinks the thing a bore With cracked foundation.

Materialize the ‘ ‘ dream ’ ’ on London’s Mall,

Returf the Maidan, let the golfers go it ; —

The Key to India’s London once for all. —

Does London know it ?

The heart of England and of India throbs Fullest within the radius known to taxis,

Where most fares spend their eightpences and bobs With Charing Cross as axis.

Lift high the ‘ ‘ dream ’ ’ where London’s millions throng As symbol of the story never olden.

To tell of rightness lording over wrong,

Of dross turned golden.

Pile high the Hall where London’s lilacs blow,

And oil the wards to make the Key turn pretty 5 Where Curzon’s on the spot to run the show With Emerson’s Committee.

The Journal , 24 tli October 1909.

“ MOMENTOUS.”

“ A ‘Gazette of India’ Extraordinary, yesterday, notified that the Governor- General in Council, with the approval of the Secretary of State, proclaimed that day as the day on which the Indian Councils Act was to come into operation. The Government concludes its Resolution with these words : ‘ The Governor- General in Council feels that these momentous changes constitute a generous ful¬ filment of the gracious intention foreshadowed by the King-Emperor’s Message. We have repeatedly insisted, as the Reform Scheme developed, that the Govern¬ ment was giving away priceless prestige in response to clamour from a very small section of the peoples of India. Representative institutions are foreign to the genius of the Oriental, and where they have been tried they have failed.” — The Englishman, 16th November.

iyr OMENTOUS ! Aye ! What change is this to-day ?

L’-L Why deaf the wise ? Why dumb who may not see The shield of England dulled to sober grey, —

The eyes of England blind, and turned away From signs portentous of the days to be ?

56

To party passion blind, by brooding fanned To folly, at cool reason’s empty throne ;

To poisoned ignorance and listless land,

To quick sedition stark of venomed gland,

Garnering her winnowed harvest tempest sown.

The flood-gates open to the thronging tide Of tireless ones who talk so talk may flow ;

The babbler sits where England kept with pride The courts of England’s honour white and wide, — Her scutcheon scatheless fronting friend and foe.

Gone the great age, and lost the golden few Who knew to rule as Kings in power and place : The little folk of faction’s bitterest brew Loom large and larger on the nearing view —

And ape our England’s freedom to her face.

Sect calls to race, and caste and creed combine.

The tribes go up to name the Councils high.

May figs from thistles spring in fair entwine —

Or silken wallets ear from Circe’s kine —

Or daws of need prevail where eagles fly ?

Spin, spin the wheel and let the hustings rage,

Cram hat and ghat to full with lust of cries,

The talkers mummers — all the land a stage Where mimic mouthing mountebanks engage In engineering fate in alien guise.

Then bid the west to praise the thing new born, — The frankenstein in motley, gendered shrill Of shreds and patches, rags and tatters torn, Voiced as the clarion-fowl to wake the morn And dominate the wondering millions’ will.

Comes wind along the chambers of delay In rumbling menace, blown of tongue and pen,

To a dazed empire’s glib ranged dis-array Of tinkling cymbals tinkered to display Of brazen corridors of meagre men.

Come claimant weakling and nepotic gift, —

The placer taking toll of him enstooled ;

The closet stairway of the panderer’s shift, Manipulated honour prone to lift

The grabber, hand to back, above the fooled.

57

Then pandemonium — rump of vandal hordes.—

A gagged, out-voted England fain to yield Her rule to them, the peoples’ lawful lords Who forged her fetters, drawing tight the cords To fling her staggering from th5 unequal field.

Sect strives with race, with creed and caste at brawl — Why deaf the wise 1 Why blind the strong to see The lifting purdha as the shadows fall, —

The mortar ravished from the gracious wall, —

While England sends “Reform” to crush the free?

And last worn India watching by the wave,

With hand to brow, her agony confessed,

Crouching to peer where leaping waters lave The vengeance-bringing squadrons, strong to save,— Where ride reclaiming cohorts from the West.

The landing hosts’ street welcomed eager stream, — Artilleried legions quick to quell the stprm, —

Foiled fads, shamed subtilities a mocking dream — Sharp shivered when the spitting maxims gleam To cleave red mouthed the path of true Reform.

The Journal , 21st November 1909.

WANDERING QUATRAINS.

"!V"OW looms the counter with its Christmas tale, Gaily arrestive on unloitering sale,

Where Oxenham and Percy White compete, And Golliwogs and Teddy-bears prevail.

Now lures the extra number as of yore,

We sign curro and leave with half a score —

The Graphic and the Strand and Mr. Punch, With Omar and with almanacks galore.

Now comes the “ Cleveland ” with a final flow Of western visitors who come and go Like shades along the Grand’s Car’vanserai And tie np all our ticcas in a row.

58

Myself Chowringliee’s side-walk did frequent 4nd heard anon accented argument —

On the location of some missed Black Hole,

And what they guessed that gharry-wallah meant.

Now glows at eve bright Clubland on the view,

The “ U. S.” and the “ Bengal,” and the “ New ”

As lamps to light our ‘ ‘ fittons’ ’ ’ homeward way, — Though which is which the Yanks don’t know, — do you ?

Now pile the tees and whack the brassy cleeks,

Now pass the Gordons, kilted or with breeks,

While papers tell that Smith goes home next May Each week for weeks and weeks and weeks and weeks.

Listen again. Come Tuesday at the feast Of Andrew brither Scots throughout the East Will toast ’tis said “ the land in which w'e lie ” —

(For thus the Statesman anyhow at least.)

The “ missing Mercury ” for so I hear,

We lost awhile and looked for far and near That used to hop alert by Outram’s side Has now turned up, at green groved Belvedere.

Cool nips the morn awisp with filmy fogs,

The Levee beckons, brush your evening togs,

The season’s sliding gaberdined in gas From glib St. Andrew to the barking Dogs.

And when mid sheaves of bills it disappears A whirling memory of joys and fears,

We’ll catalogue it thus — “ It knew no Rink —

The gods were kind ” — and bid it join the years.

So make the most of all we now discern,

And note the Council’s ultimate concern —

The how, the when, the where, the why because,

To cast the die for Apcar or Tremearne.

The “Caledonia’s” left, the “Cleveland” waits To weigh her anchor at our watery gates,

The Lords and Commons topple, — bump — bump — bump ;• Such fun delights the furies and the fate.

The Journal, 2 3th November 1909.

59

CUPID.*

F cannot tell what this Love may be —

A beautiful boy with a quiver of darts,

A queer little man in a floricsome glee

Flinging arrows around to unsettle our hearts.

A blind little fellow of infinite jest

Who beckons and blushes and sits on our chest,

As fickle deceiver without any clothes All nodding and naked in classical pose.

At his best but a dream of the vivider kind, —

At his worst a lost wail from the back of the wind, — Though ‘ ‘ borne of a Goddesse ’ ’ he lacketh a lodge So rambles all over the place on the dodge.

The keys of our senses he takes in disdain,

While his nectar resembles two shilling champagne* And his red petalled roses all tumble to bits On a judge and a jury let loose with our 6 chits.’

Yet the lords of the lyre and the lute in his praise String sonnets and rondeaux and lyrics and lays. From Chaucer to Herrick, from Raleigh to Keats To carol his gambols or sigh his defeats.

Though good Lady Hylton has pencilled his pricks, And, for Newbolt, I’ve new bolted lots of his tricks — Yet somehow or other with sorrow I see I cannot tell what this Love may be.

The Englishman, 13 th December 1909.

* From a review of Lady Hylton’s “Book of Cupid,” with an introduction by Mr. H. Newbolt.

60

ROSSCUED.*

The Tale of a CaddyAstrophy.

“A local golfer a few days ago sent his ball into the tank at Tollygunge and his caddy on going into the water to recover it was seized with cramp and called aloud for help. The golfer rescued him in a half drowned condition.”— The Empire.

TIE smote and foozled sadly, so the ball,

An agile Haskell, disappeared a sunker,

For, for the nonce, the tank was what you’d call

A Bunker.

‘ ‘ Lost Ball ! ’ ’ the caddy cried (a valiant lad)

His ‘ ‘ sticks ’ ’ discarded and his puggree peeled, Slap in the tank went flop and got cramp bad

And squealed.

True to the instincts of his kin and clan He took a header, not to say a plunger,

And rose to the occasion like a man

And Tollygunger.

Across the wave he saw the nipper’s nob,

And heard the nipper nipped with cold a-sobbin’ And thought at once he’d obviate a job

For Dobbin, f-

He breasted well the wild and watery tank And nabbed the little nipper by the flipper,

And spread him out to dry upon the bank —

Poor nipper !

Then grabbed a putter and called “ Fore, — I’m on!”

His nerve a something simply fine and awesome ; — He holed his Haskell at a stroke and won

A foursome.

* “ Truth will out, and even at the risk of a raid on the lowlands of Mission Row we find ourselves compelled to divulge the name of the hero of the tank incident at Tollygunge. Apparently ‘Dak’s’ verses published the other day have led some people to suppose that it was Mr. Norman McLeod who fished his caddy out of the stilly— we should say chilly — waters of the tank at No. 4. As a matter of fact it was his namesake and relative, Mr. Norman Ross. Mr. Ross paid for his dip with a sharp go of fever, but we are glad to hear that he is all right again.”— The Empire (later), t The Coroner.

61

Such men at call of duty never wince,

To find his like you’d have to make a long quest, —

I don’t suppose you’d find one ’fore or since

The Nor-r-man Conquest !

The Empire, \Q,th December 1909.

ANN VERONICA.* '

A rose was Ann Veronica, ;

An Iris or Japonica,

A daisy or a butter-cup or lily of the dells,

A cocky, hockey girlie —

(For you have to get up early,

Or sit up late, to estimate the belles of Mister Wells).

A straight but rather dodgy gal,

A lady biological

She used, to cram, nor muffed exam, but always got a pass. Her daddy was belated,

And her auntie auntiquated,

But none-the-less, I must confess, she loved a looking-glass.

Yet fate was rough on “A. V.”

When her daddy bellowed “cave!”

The night she tried a “ Corsair’s Bride ” to grace a fancy ball.

Her notions being jolted She slipped away and bolted

To London town, with half a crown, — “ Dad wouldn’t do at all.”

Alas ! for Ann Veronica !

Lone London proved a tonic-a —

For Ramage, bent on damage, crossed her “ A. V.” — ating stage,

But in ‘ ‘ Restaurant Rococo ’ ’

Annie banged him on the “ boko ” —

And “ jiu-jitsu ” hits you when the lady’s in a rage.

From a review of “ Ann Veronica” by Mr- H. G. Wells. 62

Then in woe and worry swimmin’

She took up with “ Votes for Women !”

With Fabians and Shavians discursive on her track—

Till, her whim evaporated,

She just wired to Dad and waited —

“ Ave ‘A. V.’ — we’ll kill the calf” — come answer. (“Vee” went back.)

* * * * * * *

Alas for Ann Veronique —

Her cussedness waxed chronic —

(Love’s crimson petals turn to nettles lacking wedding bells)— With the worst of best intentions She discarded the conventions —

(This sort of stuff’s not good enough, — no thank you Mister Wells).

The E nglislman, 20th December 1909.

THE SEA QUEEN.*

'T'HERE’S a wealth of waving woodlands where the water-maidens flirt

Loose tresses and anenomies sway softly to and fro —

Oh it’s fine to catch the glamour of our Sea-queen’s clinging skirt.

A sparkle in the moon -light of her galleries below.

The white sea-horses fume and fret to touch the sea-moon’s disc All afloat in amber lustre in a lilac sea ravine —

And the water-goblins frivol and the hippocampi frisk,

Where the nautilus goes sailing in bis ivory barque between.

Brave Ford and Mr. Longmans (not to mention Green and Co.)

May you carry on for ever your chromatic clear design To enrich the sliding glories of the ages as they glow

With the spell of Andrew’s delvings in the lore of auld — “ Lang ” — syne.

The Englishman, 20 th December 1909.

* From a review of the “ Olive Fairy Book ” by Mr. Andrew Lang.

63

THE BOOK-LOVER IN INDIA.

\ Sunday, and the ‘ dak ’ at last

Stamped with Edvardus Septimus,

The bladed fan is whirring fast,

(Ah, asti, bearer — soda — bus ! ) — .

A Sunday, and the mail is in

With home-land missives thick and thin.

A ‘ chit ’ from J. n. s., — well J. n. s. may wait, A price-list from S. G. and Co., —

A crested screed from B...f. rt. Gate.

A portrait-card of Clemenceau, —

From Paris stamped with “La Semeuse.”

(I’m fond of picture post-card views).

What’s this % A portly papered hunch Of mailed matter thunderous thick,

With Edvard S’s quite a bunch, —

Here, bearer, scissors, ‘ juldi ,’ quick ! — Excuse my suave seraphic smile These happenings please a bibliophile.

Three solid volumes from the sky !

Prodigious dose of dazzling joy —

Within whose drab dressed covers lie Potential bliss, my bearer boy !

Church ? No ! for what are fretted aisles To fellowship with bibliophiles.

So take the dogs and tie them loose Against the north verandah rail, —

And don’t let Dooma act the goose Nor Loona echo Llama’s wail.

And, ‘ mehta ,’ sweep this stuff away —

The ravished wrappings of a day.

This cover, — good — , of chastened grace,

No goggled motor-maniac loud Nor girl with chiffon hatted face Gape grinning for the book-stall crowd).

They loved this very sort of one When Warrington and Pen were young.

64

When Ratbolt, Pictor, and Loslein The ‘ ‘ Kalendarium ’ ’ did provide They little thought their front design Would deck I. Kobel’s neat outside ;

And Kobel (Iakob) little knew

The Pearsworth firm would bone it too.

I like the scroll-work interlaced,

The roundel in the headrule, — thus The midribbed foliage deftly placed,

The vase as of Poliphilus.

The ‘ ‘ Opus Spericum ’ ’ to me Proves Ratbolt was no dolt, not he.

Here ’re Austin Dobson, Shaw and Crane, With Chesterton of worth and weight ;

In ‘‘Woodcut Rhymes” we meet again The “ Northwind ” of far boyhood’s date. And that one block ‘ ‘ Petunia ’ ’

Is worth a mint’s ‘ fecunia .’

Look ! verses (Wilde’s) of Paduan rule,

And printed ‘ ‘ pourtraicture ’ ’ galore,

With cartoons rude of Gillray’s school,

And book-plates of ‘ ‘ la Pompadour,

With Raleigh frilled and Shackspeare frillier, Plus Achilles and Penthesilea.

Then bearer, get you gone from sight,' —

But feed the dogs, or else they’ll fret ’em, And close the ‘ jhilmils ’ to the light,

And put ‘ cheroots ’ where I can get ’em ! The ‘ dah ’ to-day’s both sweet and strong So call me with the dinner gong !

The Journal , 26th December 1909.

THE WAITING WATCHER. (16 th February 1910.)

“ Mr. Chamberlain tookthe oath in the Commons to-day, painfully and with difficulty. He was extremely weak. Still assisted he shook hands with the Speaker, using his left hand and went from the House amid absolute silence. General sympathy was felt for him.”— Reuter.

’S a good grey Pile with a stream beside it,

■*" A royal river to lap the Pile,

A kingdom moved with a mob to guide it — A-stir to the deep of the heart awhile.

65

From the wear of a week of wild endeavour The winners losers, the lost well won,

To the great grey Pile by the regal river Came men called clear — for the fight was done.

Thither came they from the reek of the striving — • Flushed from the fray, by the torn town tossed, By the shook shire chose, at the Pile arriving.

Men of the Moment, whatever the cost.

Drawn from the din to the Pile’s calm wooing,

Age at the winter and youth at the spring, Yantaged, exultant, wide voiced to the doing — Men with a mandate for country and King.

To the palaced porch where the doves are shining, The statued pave of the Red Lord’s hall,

By mullioned panel with pictured lining Aglow with the gold of the frescoed wall.

Age to the learning, the rest as we find them,

Heirs to the ages of ruling untold,

Parliament men with the Islands behind them — Kingdom’d of conquest to have and to hold.

Back to the Chamber oft harped to his calling. Witched to his wiling, and thaned by his art, Came he, in silence of shadow down falling

Strengthless, the Chieftain, all dauntless at heart.

Youth to the learning, sad age to the knowing, Labouring, led, where he wrought at their side; Silent they greet him in sunset’s soft glowing Silent they speed him with God as his guide.

There’s a fair grey Pile to the land’s love nearest, There are true hearts beating within the Pile, There’s a waiting watcher to England dearest And a good God helming the world the while.

The Journal , 27 th February 1910.

SIX BOOKS.

I books to read at leisure (A paper-backed sextette)

I’ve scanned them all with pleasure

And closed them with regret.

66

“ Black Sheep,” by Hyatt (Laurie), Bids high for loud applause,

’Twill lure from work and worry With Ba Ba brebis noirs.

‘‘Sealed Orders” — Carey (Greening), A blend of mirth and grief,

Moves with a mystic leaning To laughter and relief.

‘ ‘ Man of the Moors ’ ’ (worth weighted) (F. Unwin) comes this way—

By Sutcliffe who narrated “ A Tragedy in Grey.”

“ The Marriage of Lord Verriner,”

By Mrs. Grant (Colquhoun)

(John Long) to just the very Her Will wile an afternoon.

“ The Caxborough Scandal’s” spicy, By Wishaw told quite well,

And Lucas Cleeve enticy With “ Lady Susan.” (Bell),

From “ Reviews of Books.

The Englishman, 7th March 1910

THE GATES 01 IND.*

A Gate of Ind is gleaming where the level land lies high

Along the shining ripples and the palms above the spray, (By Saugor, with the Sundarbans dune crested sheltered by) — The dancing dappled shallows at the ending of the Bay.

The Gates of Ind are sleeping, for the drawn towns skirt the seas At rest along the silting of the lone Carnatic shore ;

Ah me ! the wild of wailing on the wasting of the breeze —

The thunder echoes rolling from the dun dead fields of war !

* From a review of "The Gates of India’’ by Colonel Sir Thomas Iloldich, K.O.M.Q., K.C.I.E., O.B., ko.

t>7

A Gate of Ind lias greeting for tlie users by the stars

Where the gliauted kingdom’ d Island calls across the traffic’ d foam :

And a Gate of Ind is glowing by the surf fed desert bars

Of Karachi, waiting westward for the legions that will come.

All these be Gates sea-guarded, all the portals of the brine,

They ope along the lapping of the lazy lurking tide, —

The forted fronting thresholds where the English banners shine To sea-ward, and armadas of a world’s keeled comers ride.

But Ind has Gates to landward, looking landward from the gloom, Time-torn by stroke of tempest, tear-dimmed by blast of dread, —

Towered passes frowned portentous on the battle worlds ox doom, Where the groaning of the ages moans the dirging of the dead.

There are spectral hordes a-passing from the Helmund to Lahore, And a phantom phalanx fighting where the Khaiber keys the plain,

Where up-stand the granite Gateways, where is broke the shock of war, And the might of England musters at the porticoes of pain.

The Englishman , lith March 1910.

DISCHARGED.*

(to the gun that went off.)

•' The 9-30 night gun, which has for generations been the signal for the com¬ mencement of entertainments, is now a thing of the past. Curious as it may seem, Sir Guy Fleetwood Wilson, ‘ our Finance Minister,’ is held to he responsible for this. The Englishman, 8th April 1910.

/^RISP cannonader of the night —

Sharp shudderer of the district daily — You’re “ off ” at last, and now its quite

A case of “Yale!”

You shot the way around the Clock,

And blustered as you didn’t oughter, Soothsayer of the short, sharp, shock

And smart reporter.

* The order to discontinue the firing of the gun (if ever made) was subsequent¬ ly, to the satisfaction of everybody (Dak included), countermanded.

68

And so you’re one with them that was 0 shivering, shattering, clattering, tartar 1 Ta-ta ! we’ll not regret you ’cause

A rude ramparter —

You made us jump, you made us start —

Just as the night was slowing stilly —

You went and over-did the part

A great big silly.

‘ 1 The Play's the Thing ’ ’ ! and so you thought To raise the curtain with a smacker That shook the town and eke the fort —

Colossal cracker !

MR

You always lacked a sense of what The papers call “ proportion,” certain —

It doesn’t need a cannon shot

To lift a curtain.

It is not every one who goes In black and white (the ladies finer)

To decorate our theatre rows—

A half-past-niner.

It isn’t every night we look At stage-land as a sort of heaven, —

It isn’t every day we book

With Mister Bevan.

For there are some who take the ground A gun should turn to better uses,

When Khitmutghars are walking round

With green Chcirtreuses.

When “port’s the thing!” (and not reports) Your dinner-din’s a trifle jokeless,

It spoils cheroots the best of sorts,

All-be-it smokeless.

For they who sit at table late To puff the weed and tittle-tattle Can’t really quite appreciate

Your smashing rattle.

69

And so be-gone, big gun, — good-bye On your discharge we long have puzzled —

And only hope that dear Sir Guy

Will keep you muzzled.

The Journal, 10 th April 1910.

THE SISTRUM.*

QEB to sire and Nut to mother ^ Isis and Osiris rise —

Sister-wife and husband-brother Wombed and wove of Earth and Skies.

Set the smiter, slain of Horus,

Amen-Ra with moon of gold,

Hawk and Bull come by before us—

From the underworld of old.

Hear the rodded sistrum whining From the Nome of Iquertet,

Chanting An and Iah shining,

Nephthys, spouse of Tebha-set.

Thoth and Sebek, Turn still hearted,

Khu of the Uazit Eye,

Opalled Amentit flood guarded —

Looped with lapis lazuli

Men with gods in seasons sharing Horizon the wild of Kem,

Gods the Uraeus wearing

Strike the syren sistrum stem.

Gods, disc-crowned, in peaceful meeting Twice exalt the godlet Hu, —

Heirs of Seb the silence greeting —

Living souls of Istennu

Excellent, the sistrum shaken Moves to music Luxor fane,

Lures the Pyramids forsaken So the Pharaohs flame again.

Water-girdled Philae slumbers Corridored with shades untold While the braided-sistrum number Point the liturgies of old.

* From a review of “ The Burden of Isis” by J. T. Dennis.

70

Lo, the Maardet boat abiding,

Heb sonorous, loud of lays,

Isis and Osiris gliding Cavalcade to ope the ways. Odoured sweet in radiance smiling Templed Deb unveiled stands When the sistrum, bronze, beguiling Wakes awhile the lotus lands.

The Englishman , 11 th April 1910.

CHARLES GEORGE HILLERSDEN ALLEN, I.C.S.

Chairman of the Corporation of Calcutta. Born in Leicestershire 1864. Died at Darjeeling, 13th April, 1910.

/AUENCHED the torch and void the glass- Silence, let his spirit pass.

Strength and wisdom, courage high His were these. And now good-bye.

For a while we knew his sway — - Then the Reaper came this way Beckoned to the worker true So he went beyond the view.

So his spirit broke the bars

Where the mountains strike the stars ; —

So he sleeps of mortal dust Nearest to the heights in trust — Trust that when the Judgment call Rolls along the mountain wall And the angel trumpet speaks Loud o’er the Himalyan peaks, When the scrolls of fate unfurled Flame the roof of all the world And the faithful throng the skies He with them to God will rise.

His the gain — the losers we Miserere Domine !

The Journal , 17f/t April 1910.

71

AB URBEICONDITA.

“ I last week named Samuel Oldham as the earliest Bengal undertaker. (See Bengal Obituary, p. 75 ; and Busteed, p. 172). He is supposed to have taken the marble used for his tombstones from the ruins of Gour. Most of his work was placed in the old burial ground surrounding St. John’s Church, and some of it may still be recognised by the initials on the slabs * S. O. F.’ (‘ Samuel Oldham fecit.’) He died in November, 1788, and is buried in South Park Street Cemetery.”— From “ What we hear” by Dak in the Journal.

T5ENEATH this stone for all to see Lies Samuel Oldham, (R.I.P.)

Who chipped his way and chiselled verse On chiselled marble (which was worse).

(For truth to say, S.O. was oh so So overlax, so very so-so).

His slabs (he sold ’em when he’d stoled ’em) Soon filled the ground (it couldn’t ’old ’em). He cut to deal, and shuffled sadly.

Fate dealt a cut, and hurt him badly.

To S.O. (F.) one ought to soften —

He didn’t go a-gleaning often.

And Fate’s insinuating fist

Who dare defy ? Who can resist ?

Tn carving stones for other folk He very soon was stony-broke ;

A slump set in of polished block And polished off his slabs in stock.

It does not fall to everyone

To crave for bread and ask a stone ;

It must have been a case of dread To lack a stone to carve for bread.

And so, in an unguarded hour,

The tempter whispered “go to Gour, — ” ‘ ‘ We shouldn’t take what isn’t ours ’ ’

“ Unless we’re sure its only Gour’s, — ” “ There’s heaps of marble loot on tap ”

“ So go, annex the lot, {verb, sap.).”

The cutter, cut off bread and butter, Cut off and came back to Calcutta- On Fate’s decrees he’d had revenge By scooping in an old Stonehenge. He’d thought of going on the large And mopping up the Agra Taj,

72

But didn't press the undertaking —

The distance was too aggravating;

And some suggested hide and sneakery Amid the walls of Futipur Sikri —

“Phut! a poor plan!” cried Sam, “ too far,”- — “Do hurry up that E. I. R. !”

He rose to fame and worth and pelf,

(The skies help him who helps himself) —

And he who takes what isn’t his

Oft murmurs to himself “ good biz” —

“ Bespoken orders prompt obeyed !”

(Since there are tricks iu every trade.)

And, rightly, every one who died Expected slabs to be supplied —

To blame them is of words a waste —

One must conform to proper taste.

His undertaking overtaken

Old Oldham saved his old old bacon Lived on, — the pink of high morality —

A local leading “ Old Mortality.”

None ever deemed his conduct shabby

Whose tombstones were so sleek and slabbv, And none to him cold shoulder turned Whose increment on urns was earned.

For hatchments he’d attachments bland,

Of hearse and verse a stock to hand,

When for the dead a search you bent He always knew the mon you meant.

And when you asked for more “ lo, see ’em !”

Said he of many a mausoleum.

His show-yard was in Coseitollah,

His motto — ‘ ‘ next please who’s to f oiler ? ’ ’ This undertaker undertook A trade-de-luxe — to only book The cream of them who of their kind On going left a name behind;

(So when men mentioned his emporium

They dubbed it “ Oldham’s cre{a)matorium.' 5 ) Who only, in or out of vaults,

Were weighted with but trivial faults —

Mere little slips and slides confessed ( Humanum (urn /) errare est.)

73

He never let a chisel-stroke Immortalize the sinful folk —

For, such his nicety of mood,

He only slabbed the great and good. His clients were the good and great, (He said they were at any rate).

“ Memorialize the rest,” he cried,

“ I couldn’t do it if I tried !”

He said this with an air of squirm — (The jobs went to some other firm).

If text or phrase his fancy caught on He carved it deep “ Gnotlii seauton .”

“ Hie jacet Dives, ne’er a betterer ” —

(With torches upside down, et cetera).

“ Hinc illce lachrymcB /” (that’s sobbery)

‘ ‘ Semper fidelis — bobberi ! bobberi /”

“ Vixit (he lived) apud Lai Dighee .”

“ All on the square, bus ! vale /’ ’ (twiggez ?)

And when his whim waxed rather flighty He used to add “ Mors phatuk vitceM Mortuus est — a vir virorum .”

(Where will the Board now find a quorum?) Each babe a beauty (kissy-kissy-ma !)

Each wife an “ uxor delectissima."

His pyramids he’d tier and tier ’em.

(“0 tempus fugit — edax rerum /)”

He told us what we ought to do —

Satis verborum, voila tout, Memento mori je suis pret Lex script ’ ab urbe condita.

So there they are before our eyes In avenues — the brave, the wise, In rectitude all gone before,

Qui mal-y-pense, and honi soit.

(I hope that honi felt remorse — To sware is really rather coarse —

In any cemetery extensive You’re safe to see a malli pensive, Likewise you’ll also find that he Is often furnished with a key).

74

His calligraphic art so neat Last flourished in South Park-e-Street, And he ( ars longa vita brevis !)

Is booked by Busteed in a crevice. Kind reader, ponder, shed a pref¬ erential sigh for S.O. (F).

The Journal, 24 th April 1910.

ON AN EDITOR’S LEADER.

*‘Th# question is whether Lord Kitchener’s genius is of the Wellingtonian or the Napoleonic order. He has certainly never yet failed in any task he has under¬ taken. We can only trust that, whether he comes back to India or not, he may not be fated to find his Waterloo at Government House.” — The Empire, 27th May 1910.

T^CCENTRIC finis to an Empire's say,

* J Erratic climax, Delphic, yet emphatic I’ve read it, upside down and every way —

Its enigmatic.

“We only trust that whether he comes back To Ind or not, that he may not be fated To find his Waterloo here” (lose the track)

That’s stated.

A gentle trust, as proper as correct.

For “ K. of K.” we’ve all a love platonic,

And wouldn’t like to see his prospects wrecked

Napoleonic.

Its put a trifle lame (as with a wink).

“If he comes back or not.” “Or not’’s what gets me. But there it is in lynotypic ink —

That’s what upsets me.

Should he come back or not. It reads so queer —

For if he doesn’t chance to top the guddi Where Waterloo comes in is far from clear —

Its muddy.

What’ s wrong with Waterloo too 1 That great name Is writ in uncials in our Island history —

Linked with Duke Arthur’s iron colossal fame.

Here’s mystery !

75

Of all the fights Duke Wellington was at*

Of all his endless tale of glorious tussles,

Why every school-boy knows the best was that

Near Brussels,

To dread lest Kitchener, F. M. should find,

His Waterloo quite close to Thacker Spinks’s —

Is riddle cryptic, judgment izing blind,

Smacking of Sphinxes.

Who doubts the genius of great “ K. of K.”

Is Wellingtonian when all’s said and done %

"Who doubts but if he comes he’ll come to stay ?

Not I for one.

It’s hard to understand the ‘ Empire's ’ trust

That if he don’t come back he’ll miss the Duke’s luck—

And missing turn his big career to dust,

And go and chuck.

It isn’t seemly to be so profound.

His leaders usually are unsophistic, —

This latest looked at round and round and round

’s superbly mystic.

He writes about the good in everything,

The rare, the right, the real, the ripe, the rotten, —

On Mr. Rooseveldt, or George the King,

Or Evan Cotton.

Propounding now charades on “ K ” to shock On sultry afternoons, and fog the cits In fogs of leaders qualified to knock

Their wits to bits.

He squeals Cassandra- like, to scare the street The waning glory of our Chieftain’s star —

By fearing lest at Government House he meet

His Quatre Bras.

I think I take his meaning, all the same,

Though what he said and meant to say don’t tally. Suppose we let the comet bear the blame

Or Halley !

21tli May 1910.

76

TO THAT INSECT.

“ Beilin telegrams report that the Crown Prince is signing the State Papers for the Emperor, whose wrist is badly swollen by the bite of an insect.” — Reuter, 2m May 1910.

A NOPHELES ( proboscis red),

(Lat : ‘ ‘ Musca ’ ’ ) fine and fat, “ A cat may face a king,” ’ tis said, But then you’re not a cat.

Will nothing teach you to be wise — Will nothing make you wiser ? 0, bloatedest of blatant flies — You’ve been and bit the Kaiser.

Teutonic trifler, shrill and sly,

Debased Germanic germ,

The worm may tempt the curly fly, — Though William’s not a worm.

The “ Yellow Peril ” ’s now “taboo,”

His roar is like a lamb’s ;

He’s ceased to plank his revenue On tanner telegrams.

The only failing that he’s got ’S a simple “Dreadnought” fad;

Most kings would cultivate a lot, —

He’s really not so bad.

You’ve frustrated the sports of kings, Incurred the mailed fist ; —

You’ll pay for with all sorts of things That badly swollen wrist. ,

Your wings and stings aint strong enough To see this trouble through.

To flout a Kaiser in a huff Is more than you can do.

He’s stacks of forts with glacis deep By dynamiters mined,

And spies who never go to sleep —

The secret service kind.

77

Next time you wind your sultry liorn In merry murderous mood You’ll quite regret that you were born, — They’re safe to tap your blood.

For you’ve had his, of armed host War Lord, and he won’t fail To serve your lithe loose limbs on toast With salt upon your tail.

The Crown Prince is a-signing hard State ‘ chits ’ to rear and van Of horse, police and body-guard To catch you if they can.

The bitten bites, bear that in mind, Germania’s steely heel Is up against you, pledged to grind E’en flies upon a wheel.

A million men, or thereabout,

With Nordenfeldt and lance Will leap to clutch you by the snout;— You haven’t half a chance.

A million more their nights will spend And all their afternoons A-chasing you, my little friend,

In Zeppelin balloons.

Your punishment is great, but then,

It’s also only fit, —

The fly that bites the Kaiser men Has got to pay for it.

All Europe’s linked in friendly laws,

It won’t avail to seek The aid in your unhallowed cause Of Corps Diplomatique.

The Status Quo for fly or Pope Must not be risked to-day ; —

Don’t entertain the slightest hope Of getting clean away.

28 th Mayt 1910.

78

A SEXTETTE.

QIX books for glad perusal through a lazy loafing day ^ On a gliding steamer chunking down a leafy waterway.

‘ ‘ Storm and Treasure’ ’ (Methuen) — Bailey — tends to make the eye-lids wet,

Tells of Lucille and the ladder and the “ wonder-white” Yvette.

Claire de Pratz (Mills Boon)’s alluring with a winsome witching queen In “ The (Frenchy) Education of (the dainty) Jacqueline.”

(Bell). “ Pilgrimage of Youth,” by D. G. Peto has a yacht Swamped shoreward near Morocco, you may like it or may not.

Miss Warden — Florence — (Laurie) in her old compelling style In “ Miss Ferriby’s Clients” keeps one happy for a while.

‘ ‘ Gilt and Gold ” by J essie Challeombe ( ‘ ‘ Leisure Hour ” ) ’ s all pews and peace ;

And in “Troubled Waters” Headon Hill’s sensations never cease.

The six are full of frivol, fun, fire, fallacies and fac’s Miss Warden’s bound in boards (green glazed) the rest have paper backs.

The Englishman, 6 th June 1910.

From “ Reviews of Books.”

OMIMOSA SAN.

When a Japanese girl dances yon see plum-trees, and birds with beaks, starry nights, pagodas, cherry petals, gold fish, dragons of a light soft green colour, frogs, figs, ivory buttons, parasols, volcanoes, damask kites, and welshrabbits.

H^HERE are things that you never conceived of before In Ame-no-Uzume’s repertoire.

There are cloudlets afloat and a wakayama That bubbles about to a fixed formula ;

A mystical measure

For popular pleasure

To lure into love and ecstaticise leisure ;

From a Review of “The Japanese Dance” by Marcelle A. Hinks.

79

Imayo lutes, songs,

Gold umbrellas and gongs, —

And tortoise-shell devils with red lacquer prongs , And cinnamon mimes Up to all sorts of gimes,

(One can’t always hit on the right kind of rhymes).

A Geisha’s a flirt

In a blue rumpled skirt

As nippy as ninepins and twice as alert ;

And Ameterasu A Goddess who casu¬ ally comes down and then afterwards has you, While eight million godlings smile sailing around On mats where tarantella spiders abound,

In masks made of lac,

With a comb at the back,

And scarlet himonos uncommonly slack.

These things that you’d never conceive could exist Are in Ame-no-Uzume’s “properties” list —

For dramas that go on for weeks at a time Run by acrocrobatic or bucolic mime —

Cloak for beautiful metaphors, similes dread,

Till you creep away home with a pain in the head To wake in the morn with your nose on the floor And remark “Ame-no-Uzume never no more Will I cultivate classical, assical lore !”

Your Shinto arenas,

Slit-eyed contadinas,

And sleeve-wagging, toe-dragging, prim ballerinas —

Are all very well for Hiogo or Tokio

But for me the’re no go, or put briefly no jokio !

The Englishman, 21th June 1910.

THE DAUNTLESS THREE.

T glanced from the verandah rail Upon the tennis ground — Where head aloft, and curl on tail, The dogs were roving round.

Sleek Dooma, furred in silken grace, And Llama of renown,

With Loona of the loving face —

The best of dogs in town.

80

The lawn to them was green and sweet,

A walled and gated home,

And nought to them the dusty street Where goats and cattle roam.

Came someone’s dog, a burly chow,

With nose and crest elate —

A gentleman — but anyhow They drove him through the gate.

And next a cat, a decent sort,

All pepper, spurs and spits,

They chased her round the tennis court And barked themselves to bits.

(A cat upon a wall out late Don’t matter, not at all,

It’s not the cat or wall you hate,

It’s just the caterwaul.)

A squirrel with his plume a-tuft Hopped by, they let him pass,

Then lay upon their backs and “woughed” And rolled upon the grass.

They forced a crowd of crows to quit,

— A chattering clattering crew, —

Then rambled round the world a-bit For something else to do.

Until two bandars from a tree Dropped down with shriek and squall,

And shouting at the dauntless three,

Sat jabbering on a wall.

The dauntless three on halting paw Drew close with care astute,

They’d never seen that sort before And didn’t like the brute.

The monkeys groaned and laughed and wept, And wagged their arms in air,

The dauntless three together crept To diagnose the pair.

They didn’t bark, they gazed in scorn,

A deep disgusted three,

Then backed across the tennis lawn And clambered up to me.

1/

81

Thence from the wide verandah high Well shielded from the foe,

While I was by, the three let fly And let their feelings go.

They barked their minds on monkeys black Each brother, son, and bride,

For fourteen generations back Upon the uncle’s side.

It did them good to let off steam In reckless wrath all hot.

I left them fast asleep to dream Each curled up in a knot.

Wise dogs, thought I, to clear away From venomed rogues a-row, — You’ll live to bark another day If you back out and go.

A decent dog is ne’er afraid To back from poisoned stab,

His pretty throat was never made For monkey claws to grab.

Until you’re safe don’t even growl Whatever may befall,

And always back when bandars prowl And leave them on the wall.

2nd July, 1910.

THE SCENT OF THE ROSES.

An autobiography full of picturesque and varying interest frankly told. The Princess' idea of the Art of Life has been “ to enjoy to the full the scent of the roses and all other gifts of nature, while carefully avoiding the thorns.”

iTEET scent of the roses, the roses awaking,

^ The red petalled roses, the dew on them wet, It comes to the heal of the heart that is aching The rose-scent of morning to chasten regret.

82

Oh, scent of the roses, the roses a-weeping, The fire-fashioned roses a-flame to the last, A-waft to the soul of the sin that is sleeping The sin of the sunless when daylight is past.

Sharp thorn of the roses a-sib to the sinning,

The thorn thoughted roses, the blood on them yet, The flail of the loss that is holden the winning,

The moan of the mourning to them that forget.

Oh, thorn of the roses, the thorn that is slaying The garlanded roses, a canker at heart,

It stabs where the red-nodding roses are straying,

It slays where the tears of the late lovers start.

Sad scent of the roses, the roses decaying,

The thorn wasted roses of sin and of sigh,

Sad thorn of the roses, the lovers’ dismaying —

The love for a day is the love that will die.

Songed scent of the rose, of the roses a-shining,

The red centred roses with joy over-cast ;

Now pluckt is the thorn of the lover’s repining —

“ The love for a life is the love that will last !”

From a review of “ Princess Helene Yon Recowitza,” an autobiography.

The Englishman^ llth July 1910.

AT CHOTA HAZRI.

“ The memorial to Edward VII must be local and imperial, useful and orna¬ mental, representative of all and the servant of all. The first proposal that occurs to us, is the suggestion made by •* Dak,” long before the conference was thought of. “ Dak’s ” idea is the most magnificent. It is based on the memorial to Vic¬ toria, which is to be augmented by a garden, statues, and processional way.”— The Journal , 24 th July 1910.

r like to read of Savarkar, his sprint at gay Marseilles ;

Of Johnson and of Jeffries at Nevada, “ hard as nails;”

Of Liabeuf, the guillotined, the Paris Apache,

And other foljk who grace the news with tea and toast to-day.

83

I like to read of flying men, the more or less insane ;

Of Lady Abdy “ crazy” for a channel aeroplane;

But best to read the “ Hostel scheme”* is only “ in the air”

Now Sir Edward’s been explaining to Sir Lawrence in the chair.

But while I peel a plantain, while I stir a cup of tea,

A horrid thought arises which it’s quite perplexing me,

The thought of that sad morrow, oh it makes my spirit ache,

When people cease suggesting just the form the thing should take.

I like to read the papers, my patriot spirit beams ;

I like to read of people with a lot of different schemes ;

King Edward’s dead, that’s certain, but it isn’t quite as clear Just what Sir Edward wanted when he spoke at Belvedere.

But that’s just where the fun comes in, the fat’s on fire (what ho !) Now we all of us are happy till the 5th of proximo ;

We’ll all make scheme suggestions in the sweetest, suavest way And can calculate (pro rata) on a crop of nine a day.

But still I’m far from placid, for I look a lot ahead,

To a closed suggestion season when suggestion time is dead;

When packed waste-paper baskets range in rows upon the stair And we read no more of meetings with Sir Lawrence in the chair.

So let’s be up and doing while to-day is yet to face,

Shame the stars of morning singing while they roll about in space ; Get stylos by the dozen, and buy foolscap at the ream ;

Cram steam, turn tap, — ‘ suggestions for the King’s Memorial Scheme !’

The Journal, 2ith July 1910.

THE NON-MELANCHOLY DANE.

“ Sir Louis Dane during his recent visit to Delhi has visited the various sites suggested for the All India Memorial to the late King Emperor and has cheerful¬ ly inspected the improvements carried out in the Fort gardens and drainage system.”— The Englishman, 29£/i July 1910.

QIR Louis Dane, Sir Louis Dane ^ (They’d all at-once improved a drain) Walked cheerfully for miles and miles Sans smells, returning smiles for smiles.

* Sir Edward Baker, Lieutenant-Governor of Bengal, at one time had desired that the Memorial should take the form of a Hostel for Indian students. His proposal met with strong and successful opposition.

84

He beamed upon the Chandni Chowk And thought the eJcJcas quite a joke ;

Though when he reached the Kashmir Gate His mirth, restrained, grew less elate.

The Mosque of haughty Humayoon Quite cheered him up all afternoon,

And meeting with the Musjid yellow His joy approached the ultra-mellow.

The Kutub, climbing to the sky Increased his risability ; —

So striking on a statue site He laughed and laughed in sheer delight.

And when they showed him others various Sir Louis grew quite Loui(s) larious.

And when they said they wanted money He chuckled “do you ? don’t be funny !”

Sir Louis Dane, Sir Louis Dane,

(They’d cheerfully improved a drain) —

Both viewed the Fort and Gardens system — And cried to think he might have missed ’em.

31 st July 1910.

A MAN’S HATE.*

My hate pretends not that I’m going there,

It is mine own and never can’t abide

Be I most close reproved, or be thou clear. But hate, thou must not crow —

I will be false !

Change for a dib — three annas — and no less — Our hate forfendeth it upon my word,

It won’t be mine — quite as it’s not — confess Because we fought and always overheard. But hate, it’s all no go,

I must be false !

* (The pages of the “ Journal ” had been for some time open to verse by lady writers whose muse tended towards the doleful. This monstrosity is a parody of Woman’s Love” that had graced the paper a week previously.)

85

Squeak as thou may’st in bold or slender groan*

My hate, loathed too, perturbs not on thy screech, Since it was stolen, mine it is, a loan Unlent to me, to stick to like a leech.

But hate, 0, dear me, 0 I shall be false !

Fact as it’s not — be blind — or be my foe,

My hate suspends itself and nothing heeds,

It is a shift, my hate, I would not owe —

It’s jolly fine on whatsoe’er it feeds.

But hate, how coulds’t thou know ?

I’ve jolly well got to be false !

Hate whom I won’t, don’t ask it not of me*

My hate hates so perpending on it quite,

(I’m off the hooks a bit but wait and see With luck I’ll fake and fake the metre right).

But fate, ’twas never so —

That I am false.

Burn if thou dare’st this screed, it’s quite at sea Ah hated one, my hate is all uncaught,

It “taketh nought,” it don’t, no thanks to thee — And ‘‘asketh which” where it was never sought. Yes, hate, likewise “what ho” —

I really am going to be false !

The Journal, 31 st July 1910.

THE PUNCH CARTOONS.

OENCILLINGS proud with memories gleaming, Good, gay, streaming In full flow,

Eloquent artistry deftly dreaming Dimly out of the dead days glow.

Old time odours about them clinging, Bell-calls ringing Lost chimes clear,

Clanging of sad sweet things rebringing Glamour of deeds of the old days dear.

86

/

Delicate tracery, charm compelling,

Wisdom welling,

Lifting the heart —

Conquering resonance, echoing, telling Of bosom throbbed when the tear-drops start.

Pencillings, stencillings, laughing, weeping, Crowding, creeping,

Loyal and leal ;

Time kissed treasures of stately reaping, — Shadowy sheddings of Time’s appeal.

The Journal, 1th August 1910.

A QUARTETTE.

“ Vocation.” By Lily Grant Duff. Murray’s Imperial Library. rPHE location of “Vocation” isn’t difficult to place,

-*■ It gets at you, it holds you, and it hits you in the face. It’s all about a “Gordon Rex” whose portrait, so they tell Was painted for “the Salon” by “Cette petite demoiselle.”

“ How sbe played the Game.” By Lady Napier of Magdala. Murray’s Im¬ perial Library.

And this is “how she played the game” when standing on the stair To greet her crowd of ducal guests, gem-crowned in red-gold hair, “How sweet you look !” said Lady Price (aside) “The horrid cat !” “Your tiara is crooked, dear !” said Jean. — (“She’s getting fat !”)

“ Jewell,” by Clara Louise Burnham in Constable’s Sixpenny Series.

“Sing once again the song you sang !” (the stars were shining wide)* And she began to softly sing close nestled to his side.

“From tired joy and grief afar and ever nearer Thee, — ”

“Father, where thine own children are I ever love to be !”

“The Success of Mark Wyngate.” By Una L. Silberrad in Constable’s Sixpenny Series.

Mark did not hear, the twilight filled the silence of the room,

In darkness then a toddling child came feeling through the gloom,

“Is fraulein’s work quite finished ?” asked the little one and smiled, “She’s resting now for ever !” said the man, and kissed the child. From “ Reviews of Books.”

The Englishman, 15 th August 1910.

87

“ A BACK WORD.”

Mr. Rudyard Kipling’s Suggestion.

“ Mr. Rudyard Kipling has been considering the advisability of adopting some scheme for protecting an airman against a fall. The result of his considera¬ tion is embodied in a letter illustrated by diagrams, which appears in this week’s Car.

“ ‘As far as I can make out,’ lie says, 1 men' go up with less protection, than is worn by the catcher of a baseball team.’

“ ‘I suggest a helmet of rubber inflated on the crown of the head, and round the back and over the collar bones. What you want is the protection of the neck against a backvvard or forward wrench. The height of the padding on the addalidcehrad daoslir dllaofd raohtraf dwofdoc mra mfwl tato inoh olirdl dodw etaliid rlufysh Knt lost6nt8 inHH efi S gzo.’ ” — The Englishman , 16 th August , 1910.

'fWINKLE, twinkle, little Car

Kipling catch and there you are,

Up above the world so high With the fly-men in the shy.

Beautiful Car from heaven so bright Softly falls protected wight When he falletli to earth afar Car of the Kipling, beautiful Car.

When the padding height is known Kipling’s prose seems too high flown — Kiplingesque his latest’s quite Kipling, Kipling, out of sight.

17 th August 1910.

88

POT POURRI.

I

“ Mrs. Wilmot Corfield’s Entertainment.”

“ Mrs. Wilmot Corfield, who organised the entertainment in aid of St. Paul’s Children’s Home, Scott’s Lane, Calcutta, given at the Empire Theatre last night, has good reason, as also have the managers of the Home, to be satisfied with the result of her labours, for there was hardly a seat vacant in the huge theatre, and the result should be the handing over of a substantial cheque for the Home. The immense audience, too, seemed delighted with the entertainment and rapturously applauded everything, which again must have been very satis¬ factory to Mrs. Corfield, as well as to the ladies and gentlemen who so generously gave their services.”

The above is from a report in the Statesman of a “ Pot-pourri ” entertain¬ ment under the Patronage of Their Excellencies the Viceroy and the Countess of Minto, C.I. ; His Honor Sir Edward Baker, k.c.S.i., Lieutenant-Governor of Bengal; Sir Lawrence Jenkins, k.C.i.e., Chief Justice of Bengal ; and Colonel Shute and the Officers of the Rifle Brigade, given on the 16th August 1910, the financial result of which was eminently satisfactory. The following topical verses with choruses serving as encores, were well received, and according to the Empress of many days after “ survive at bridge parties and such convivial gatherings.” Mr. L. May and Mr. E. It. Hartly led the choruses.

(I.)

X WAY ! come away from the hill-land ^ Away ! come away from the stew ! When you’re safe in Calcutta The maidan will put a Fine breeze by the golf-club for you. — You’ll call on the ladies on Sundays, Then indulge in a dinner (with sweeties), And smile, as you swear,

There are no girls up there

Like those you may take to Peliti’s.

By the shore of the Tollygunge tanklet so blue, blue, blue,

There are maids who love jumping gymkhanas, they do, do, do,

And whenever you like

They will teach you to bike to the Zoo, Zoo, Zoo.

For our girls have a tone of their own be it known, just for you, you, you.

You need never go back to the hill-land But sit with your quiet cigar.

The smoke rings up-rolling Your sad thoughts consoling For those in the fog lands afar.

89

There are dear little ladies on Sundays Just fitted for phitton or dinghy,

With sweet pretty faces And chiffons and laces Down Alipore way or Chowringhee.

In the shade of the big Banian branches askew — skew — skew, (They haven’t got anything like it at Kew, Kew, Kew),

She who must be obeyed

Is the only maid made just for you, you, you,

There are girls of the kind, though not easy to find,

For they’re few, few, few.

(II.)

The women folk are past a joke,

As Suffragettes they’re posing —

No Suffragette a vote will get —

Unless John Bull is dozing ;

Mauve, green and white, their colours bright, A high flown art selection —

To suit the tall, the short, the small,

And each kind of complexion.

Oh, be careful of the Suffragette,

Ask the Crocodile to sight her —

She’s getting hoarse and husky And she makes Mr. Asquith tuslcy ;

Ask her to dinner with the Crocodile —

And very soon he’ll delight her —

It’ s a penny to a pin that the Croc, takes her in — The poor, deluded Crocodile.

Big buildings high that strike the sky Around the town are looming —

The Grand Hotel is doing well,

The Empire Theatre’s booming; — But one lost friend has reached an end We’re each and all a mourner, —

So heave a sigh and wipe your eye For poor Scott Thomson’s Corner.

90

Oh, be careful of the crocodile —

Coax the crocodile to go now —

He’s lanky, long, and lucky,

He’s feeling tired though plucky. —

Here’s to Lord Minto and his lady fair,

We all shall miss them so now, —

But Lord Hardinge he’s a brick and he’ll be here pretty quick- ~ Don’t let him catch the Crocodile.

Vide also “ In as much as ” in “ Dak Dicta ” (p:ige 90).

1 6th August 1910.

ON ANYTHING.

rPAKE hold of the “Post of the Morning”

And stand in the Strand till it’ s read —

And you’ll lay in a stock of the wit of Belloc “On Anything” out of his head.

From a review of “On Anything ” by Mr. H. Belloc.

The Englishman , 22nd August 1910.

ADRIFT.

rFHE sish is deep, the slob packed loose to sinking, Great chasm dun comes by to cloak and kill, — Dim gap along the racing landwash blinking —

And ice-pan heaved as stones of Freya’s mill.

And still they strive with eager neck out-thrusting, — Big “Brin” white chieftain of the burly breast, “Doc” gentle beast of joyous bark full trusting,

Slim “Spy” wise, wiry, with a lion chest.

Then, “Moody,” plodder, ne’er behind him glancing, And “Watch,” the speedy, liquid eyes a-glow,

Roan, “Jerry,” firm of foot, for aye advancing —

And “Sue,” like great grey wolf, an Eskimo.

91

Last jet black “Jack,” the tender true retriever —

Who always runs the first before the sledge,

And never looking back pulls on for ever To the far rim of purple star-set’s edge.

Out of the night, I see them, teaming, dreaming, —

On ever on, none ever look behind,

Into the night they go, for ever streaming —

Gods’ ghost-pack scampering with the Spirit’s wind.

Then list the gods across the landwash calling,

Though chasm yawn and slob-pan loose to sink,

Thy path is onward to the planet’s falling —

Right on to reach the shining star-set’s brink.

And when that bright light brink is touched, and turning Thou see’st the way by thee and dog o’er past,

And know’est the gods went with thee, to thy learning,

And on before the white eternal Vast —

There then shall gleam beyond the star-beams setting Rich red auroras till the Day-Star glow For faithful man and gallant dog forgetting The dead dark nights of striving through the snow.

From a review of “Adrift on an Ice-pan” by N. P. Grenfell.

The Englishman, 22 nd August 1910.

AT THE PARLIAMENT HOUSE*

For the meeting of the Calcutta Parliament on Friday last a “ tremendous House” had been confidently predicted by a writer in “Calcutta, Day by Day,” in the Empire, in consequence of its being the first occasion upon which ladies had had the opportunity of admission to membership. As a matter of fact no lady member attended and only three ladies occupied seats in the visitors’ gallery.

Woman (while we bend the knees Uncertain, coy, and hard to please)

For vote and seat you made a vow —

And went and won them, anyhow.

“You shall have both !” the House replied,

“Walk up, walk up, pray come inside !”

“Step in!” said Woolacott, “and sit!”

And Horniman said ditto, dit.

* At this time “ Dak” was Secretary of State for the Colonies in a Unionist Ministry.

92

The Empire man (a man of nous)

Predicted “a tremendous House.”

The Cabinet of matchless mien Created an imposing scene.

The Speaker sat, the House was set To greet each gracious Suffragette ;

The Speaker sighed, the House was calm, White-waistcoated, the mould of form.

The Speaker sat, the Speaker sighed —

And Woolacott the ceiling eyed,

The Speaker sighed and seemed in doubt —

And Horniman glanced round about.

“She cometh not — the hour is past!”

Groaned Premier Horniman at last —

“That clock is fast, it’s always so !”

Moaned Woolacott, “and Woman’s slow !”

The members gazed across the floor,

No Peri waited at the door, —

No Peri, it must be confessed,

Turned up and meant to do her best.

Then, thus the chair, “Attention pray”

“We’ll take the orders of the day,” —

“Though pain and anguish rack the brow,”

“I don’t suppose she’s coming now.”

She didn’t come, she smiled beyond The legislative precincts fond,

And Horniman passed Woolacott Some stoppered salts upon the spot.

“Buck up” sobbed he, “you’re feeling faint !” And Woolacott snapped “No, I aint !”

(He’d some excuse it seems to me For this uncivil repartee.)

And both of them are searching far For him who penned that Empire par,

That Empire man — a man of nous —

Who scented “Angels in the House.”

93

And each, if caught in pensive way, Is known to ruminate, they say — “0 Woman — !” (But relate I’ll not What Horniman tells Woolacott.)

The Empire, 31 st August 1910.

THACKERAY AND MACAULAY.

The Calcutta Historical Society is taking steps to arrange for the commemo¬ ration in 1911 of the centenary of the birth in Calcutta of William Makepeace Thackeray. It is proposed to place a replica of Thackeray’s bust as a boy,* in the National Portrait Gallery, Trafalgar Square, in St. John’s Church, Calcutta, where the novelist was baptised.

r THERE was a nice Calcutta boy, with neat and curly hair,

They built a bust about that boy for great Trafalgar Square ; The C. H. S. says “dear me, yes, we really think we must “Collect the funds, so our St. John’s, may boast another bust!”

Lord Curzon’s memorial tablet to Thomas Babington Macaulay, which for¬ merly graced a gate-post of his now demolished house in Chowringhee, has recent¬ ly been replaced upon the outer front wall of the new Bengal Club Building. The inscription has been altered to suit the circumstances.

A house there was that bore a slab to Lord of Lute and Lay,

A knave of clubs did grab that slab and took it clean away ; But,' when it saw its house was gone, with all its might and main It popped into another house and dabbed it on again.

The Empire, 9f/j September 1910.

* At a meeting of the Thackeray Centenary Fund Council subsequently held in the Council Chamber of the Asiatic Society of Bengal, “ Dak ” formally proposed the acquirement of a replica of Devilie's "boy” bust. His resolution, however, was defeated by the casting vote of the Chairman only and another adopted for the acquirement of a bust of the novelist at mature age. The chairman bore the Thackerayan name of “ Dobbin.”

94

“ EENGONYAMA.”

“You are not a few boys playing on the maidan, but are known to all the world and have become a recognised and inipoitant feature of our vast Empiie. Your particular Patrol, I understand, is ‘ The Service Patrol ’ and in future you will carry that, animal’s head upon your flag. Well, we all know what smart clever dogs terriers are, honest, faithful and true, and I am quite certain that if you follow their example you will become a credit to your country.”

From a speech by Mrs. Oxenham Menzies to the Boy Scouts when presenting a Flag. — The Empire , 6th September 1910.

T really cannot quite make out

Just why the lady went and said —

“Here, take this flag, my little scout,”

“It’s decorated with a head.”

“If you a Terrier emulate”

“ And wave the beast through thick and thin”

“ You’ll be a credit to the state.”

(I don’t see where the dog comes in.)

A Service head’s a sort of chief

Who rules departments rather well,

(At least this once was my belief —

I thought he was an awful swell.)

But now they’ve stuck him on a flag —

(A fact I’ve mentioned once before)

For little boys to go and wag

(I can’t think what they’ve done it for).

1th September 1910.

“QUEEN ANNE’S DEAD.”

“ The pages of history provide brilliant examples of advancement under female sovereignty. Great Britain dates as a world-power from the reign of Queen Elizabeth. Her arms were then successful both by land and sea, colonies were founded ; art and literature flourished and the people emerged from a state of savagery to civilization. Under good Queen Bess the country experienced another great revival, all along the line, and the benefits of female rule are demonstrated unmistakably by the epoch-making deeds of the Victorian period.”— The Empire , 6th September 1910.

TAT HEN great Eliza filled the throne

Old England held the world her own.

Then good Queen Bess, by grace divine,

Went forward, all along the line —

Until Victoria’s period crowned With epoch-making deeds came round.

* * * * * *

95

She’s dead of course with all her clan, —

But what’s the matter with Queen Anne ?

The Journal, 11th September 1910.

HISILLUSIONMENT.

“ The Berliner Zeitung says : “ The Kaiser regards himself as the instru¬ ment of the Lord, and will go his way without regard to the views and opinions of the day.

The King’s new conception of a state of relation which in no way consorts with modern constitutional ideas will awaken a stormy echo outside Persia. In the component states of the German Empire the bitter liisillusionment which August 26 has brought will be felt not only by the people but by the ruers.” — The Englishman , 12 th September 1910.

rFHE Berliner Zeitung gives tongue, the Kaiser bars inertia,

His new conceptions agitate storm echoes outside Persia.

The ruers will rue ony day that hatched a dis-illusionment,

The people (and perhaps the pope) will hiss his hisillusionment.

12 th September 1910.

SWITZERLAND.

I’D like to live in Switzerland and hear the porters yell —

“Next platform for the 5-15 !” “Change here for Neufchatel !” I’d like to glide in motor-cars above the firs and fogs.

It’s nicer far than jogging by on big St. Bernard dogs.

I’d like to climb a mountain steep and feel that at the top I’m safe to find a telephone and picture-post-card shop.

I’d like to lug my Kodak out from bulky brass bound box And shoot the chamois balanced high on bits of pointed rocks.

I’d like to look from Lake Lucerne on Zeppelins in flight —

It must be fine to flap around like Mr. Grahame White.

I’d like to live a Switzer free of Kaiser and of Krupp

And feel no German “Dreadnought” means to come and mop me up.

I’d like to skip with mountain goats and antelopes and rams And form a company to float Mont Blanc Marconigrams.

I’d like to live where glaciers glide and avalanches break And have a launch (electric mind) to ply the placid lake.

I’d like to wield an alpenstock and wind an Alpine horn When winding up a cuckoo clock to wake me up at morn.

I’d like to hang head-foremost down and pluck the edelweiss;

But I must stop “I’d liking” now, it’s such an idle vice.

The Englishman, 12 th September 1910.

96

AT THE PARLIAMENT HOUSE.

1 T met. It sat. A sad sea change pervaded in a crack,

The party of some forty days had faded in the week ;

A Premier into office rode upon the wireless back Of a Marconi telegram, — a fine elusive squeak.

I like to picture to myself that high historic scene, —

That wireless mount, that rider bold agog for power and place, —

That one vote lacking party lost, of proud though puzzled mien, — That Premier with a vote too much careering into space.

It met. It sat. The Premier rose and cooed his bill of fare*

Then named his cabinet, in sooth, a veteran gang the lot,

Whereat a complicated clang of claymores rent the air

While parties went to war a while and went it strong and hot.

Next purring Peace. The lamb fell fond upon the lion’s neck — The lion drooped with melting mane upon the other’s chest.

They purred round one another’s shanks with pert and pretty peck, And just because the House agreed Lord Minto did his best.

I like to see the House a-whirl when feathers strew the ground,

I like to see the mettled hosts galumping out to wars :

But when the mettled hosts as lambs go bleating all around Oh, blessed unanimity ! Oh, blessed mettled bores !

In blessed unanimity the House of fervour fine

Was pleased to plan to pedestal Lord Minto on a horse.

What only one — one pedestal — oh wherefore draw the line 1 Indent a brace, restore to grace Lord Ripon too, of course !

The Journal, 18 th September 1910.

IMPROMPTU AT THE PARLIAMENT HOUSE.

rPHERE was a man, a Horny man,

And he was wireless wise —

He jumped into a quick-change hedge And scratched out all his “ayes.”

But when he saw his “ayes” were gone,

And all his fight in vain,

He jumped upon Woolly cot And scratched them in again.

23 rd September 1910.

1.9

97

THE LITTLE NIPPER UP-TO-DATE.

(With apologies to Mr. Albert Chevalier.)

I’M very near the ’appiest sahib about,

I’ve got a little nipper — Vs a scout —

I’ll lay you fifty dibs to two or three You’d take ’im for a cliota Baden P.

Now, as for Enery Nooman I’ve respect,

I thought I’d bring the nipper up correct —

So I says, says I, “Now dekko Master Jim You alius take your little tips from ’im.”

And Jim’s a Bobs Bahadur, —

Do me proud, but ’e’s a Mongoose,

Takes arter one, and aint a bit too tall, —

’E calls the Terriers ‘Ooloos’,”

And the Curlews “good old Zulus;”

And ’e only stands about so ’igh that’s all !

’E gets me on the maidan when we’re out j

And ’e starts away first aidin’ of a scout,

To see ’im rub a Tiger — well its great And it takes a bit o’ rubbin’ at ’is weight.

’E’ll ambulance a Mongoose in ’is boots,

And ’aint ’e just a terror when ’e shoots ?

I loves to see ’is flag a waggin’ trumps And ’im shoutin’ “ eengonyama” as ’e jumps.

There ’e’s a Bobs Bahadur, —

Do me proud, but ’e’s a Mongoose;

I’ve knowd ’im wave a bamboo ten feet tall —

’E’s perlite to all the lidies,

And saloots Apostolides

And ’e only stands about so ’igh, that’s all !

I used to do the Red Road, every night,

The Band or Club and often come ’ome lite,

But now from all such ’abits I’ve got loosed And wre stalks them flying foxes ’ ome to roost.

’E’s muggin’ up the Scout Law all complete And ’e ’ates to loaf and can’t abide a cheat —

“For Mongooses” says ’e “I ’as my ’opes — ”

“But I ’as my doubts about them Antelopes!”

Only last Saturday me an’ ’is ayah took ’im out for a walk, I should say ’e took us out. As we was coinin’ ’ome I says, says I, “ lets pop into Oastellazzo’s, ” I says, “ an’ ’ave a cup o’ tea” I says. So in I goes follered by ’is Nibs, so I goes to the counter and calls for two of the cup as cheers. “Oh,” says ’e, “aint Ayah goin’ to 'ave none ?”

98

Oh, Vs a Bobs Bahadur, —

Do me proud, but Vs a Mongoose*

Says ’e “its teen peearlers now — my call.” Do me proud, its no chilakhi, —

’E’s a Baden Powell in Khaki —

And ’e only stands about so ’igh that’s all !

The Journal, 25 th September 1910.

POT POURRI AGAIN.

“Boy Scouts on the Stage.”

“ Mrs. Wilmot Corfield’s Entertainment.”

“ The Scouts are now an established feature of Calcutta life and under Mr. Newman’s guidance are developing daily into a force making for picturesque utility. Last night saw the handsome and spacious Empire Theatre comfortably filled with enthusiastic admirers of the Scouts who very obviously appreciated the untiring efforts of Mrs. Corfield and her artistic band of actors, singers, and musicians to afford Calcutta in pre-pocjah days an excellent evening’s amuse¬ ment. Their Excellencies Lord and Lady Minto extended their patronage to the entertainment, as also did His Honour Sir Edward Baker, Lady Baker, Colonel Shute of the Rifle Brigade, and Lieutenant- Colonel Apostolides, with a representa¬ tive committee of well-known ladies and gentlemen. The programme, a bright and attractive one, was (with the exception of a solitary item) entirely new, and its record will live daintily enshrined in the khaki covered pages of an illustrated programme specially prepared for the occasion, a model of discreet art and art¬ fulness. “ Dak’s ” topical verses (as encores ) went with a swing. The Scouts acquitted themselves gallantly.” Miss Alice Gomez was one of the vocalists and Messrs. E. R. Hartley and T. A. Kay led the choruses.

The above is an extract taken from the report of the entertainment of the 27tli September 1910, which appeared in the Englishman of the following day. The financial result proved more than satisfactory and the topical verses (encores to choruses) referred to above were as follows : —

"VI/’E’YE been the A. D. S. to see ’ " In one perpetual flow,

We think the “ Bal Masque ” immense, The funniosities intense Of Zimmerman & Co.

For Zimmerman remains the rage Of our Imperial local stage.

Vide also “The Song of tho Scouts” in “ Dak Dic-ta” (page 93).

99

And Goss has made a record gate In fine financial groove —

The universal comment’s thus —

They’d almost act as well as us If only they’d improve.

We’ll miss her badly we’re afraid The A. D. S.’s gay “ French Maid.”

When good Lord Minto ruled the land ’Neath great King Edward’s line Then all the town was of one mind To generosity inclined And charity divine.

Calcutta proved well up-to-date At Lady Minto’ s glorious Fete.

And when Lord Hardinge legislates In full viceregal fig Another Minto Fete we’ll plan To decorate the green maidan And do it just as big; —

For charity we’ll strive again In our King George’s glorious reign.

II.

The Empire seats rise tier and tier,

The shout o’ the scout we hear,

How smart all the lads appear,- In gay patrol that’s now so near,

We’ll give ’em a hearty cheer as they come by !

They’re stepping light with figure slight And these are the boys who come wheeling into sight In Khaki neat with kit complete And from many an English heart goes up the cry —

Here comes my ‘ ‘ Curlew ’ ’ scout,

My “Tiger-Terrier’s” out Patrolling from the big Maidan,

What the “ Terriers ” do the “ Curlews” can,

With their “Eengonyama” yell. —

March, march with bamboo strong,

Hat slouched, they march along ;

They’ll make a name in history And we’ll cheer them as we cheer B. P.

They’re our own lads marching there.

27th September 1910.

100

THE POINT OF VIEW.

\ ISTEN, I’ve struck Calcutta from a sort ^ Of novel coign of vantage newly found.

I overhauled the Empire and I sought The circle ultimate that galleries round Beneath the dome

Against the ceiling flat ; and there at rest Leaned, twinkling like an asteroid at home On all beneath, Calcutta at her best, —

Artistically dined, and most superbly dressed.

Calcutta came, then hovered at the door Or trod the neat encircling pavement white,

Paused, midmost, crossing the mosaic floor And smiled and laughed and nodded left and right To friends she spied,

In prime post-prandial mood. On pleasure set,

Her dinner done, she to the play-house hied To cheer the Scouts, or part, to loud regret,

With dainty, dancing, dallying smart Suzette.

Spread out Society aint up to much,- Its when you strike Society askew And focussed that you realize that touch Which condensation lends the point of view.

‘ ‘ Good gracious, Oh ! ”

‘ ‘ What is it ? ” (so my murmurous musing ran) — That smart kaleidoscopic hive below —

Your buna sahib — a quite abnormal man, —

Your aunt — a lady mostly feet and fan ?

I think it was Diogenes the grey,

Who sat within a tub and thought a lot About the people of his paltry day And all the funny fussy fads they’d got.

But bless you, no,

He never scanned Society askew In one bright mingled phalanx down below, Meshed in a magic massed mosaic ring And impulsed to one mind — "the Play’s the thing.”

“ Man’s a forked radish usually an ass” —

Thus the sad Sage of Chelsea in the dumps —

(Could he have seen that quaint procession pass His language would have fizzled out in jumps — It really would.)

101

Calcutta came with tickets, statuesque,

Enigma’d so you wouldn’t if you could Believe your senses, just at first, grotesque,

Weird, metamorphisised to bland burlesque.

I never met a more facetious crew Of ladies fair, and gentlemen as fine,

The which alway depended on the view

You got, and how and where it drew the line. That silly minx —

The point of view is everything. But stop — We’re cinnamatographed Darwinian links,

Mere marionettes in life’s wind-windowed shop Conspicuous for a lack (or lot) of hair on top.

If so be Art is Beauty, — Beauty Truth,

Why there you are (thus Mister Bernard Shaw,- And Kipling, Dante, Chesterton, in sooth John Milton and about a million more Alive and dead,)

Then Art spells Beauty, both together spell That Laboucherean lass of whom ’tis said That she presumably prefers to dwell And comb her yellow curls at bottom of a well.

If Truth prefers a netherish kind of hole It’ s not for me to worry much about The means to lift that deep deluded soul, —

To elevate the Lady — fish her out. —

"What could I do

To lug her to a hygienic flat, —

To sanitate her mildewed point of view —

To make her wipe her feet upon the mat ?

Let well alone ! What’s Truth ? What i? she ? that !

1st October, 1910.

DARTYMOOR.

rI 0 mark my word these tales be fine * J O’ Dartymoor an’ tor an’ farm, Gert pool an’ hugeous wambling pine An’ kicklish tangled zunzet warm.

Answer

102

Its wonnerful this bestest clutch O’ tale o’ tilth an’ hole an’ tarn,

O’ leery looking oaf an’ such,

An’ furze-gorse catched to hatch mouthed barn.

Way backalong to Bellaford Wigged weathers crop the spangled down,

Bell’d hosses jog wi’ snort an’ gaud All truck-a-muck to Totnes town.

The blind tors notch the wilderness In purple mist o’ snow-cloud foam,

This instant moment (jukes-a-mess !)

, Sucks up the sky to Widdicombe.

The come along o’ it be zo —

Grey gaffers niffed to wedlock gall An’ missuses down daunted go Wi’ gilt wore off the ginger ball.

Curmudgeons o’ but ill botched bone,

An’ turps in barr’ls blazing hell,

An’ wench in clouts as baint her own,

An’ crookd ghost hutchd to Crazy well.

All hugger mug the gleaners toil,

(We’m seed ’em but a bit ago).

Lil childer roam the cowslip’d goyle Red pinnered in a handfast row.

Lil treasures o’ the shiny eyes

Zo blue, you hear the harebells ring To elfin music rare an’ wise,

An’ laughter loitering ’long the ling.

Squat toadstones dugged to Lether Tor In mizzling mirk o’ zunzet red.

Oh, dally buttons — Dartymoor For sure be terrible fine spread!

Its wonnerful this clutch o’ tricks By Mister Villpotts writ zo grim,

Us baint slack twisted daps o’ricks, —

We’m terrible concerned to him.

103

Us baint born fools, an’, rightful like,

We ’me going to ax to Thacker Spinks For this fierce book o’ crag an’ dyke, —

An’ us’ll tell ’ee what us thinks.

But Mister Yillipotts be good,

An’ Mister Murray stram-bang grit, —

We’m minded now o’ Walna wood By Dart along to Merripit.

Pied pony pads, wi’ lads astride In corduroy, come by our way,

Hisself has tell’t where vixen hide In Runnage hurst by Babenay.

We baint annointed fools for zo !

We’me Devon maid an’ bacheldor —

Vill’d zider pots, swig “Ho, so ho,”

To Yillipotts an’ Dartymoor !

(From a Review of “ Tales of the Tenements ” by Mr. Eden Phillpotts.)

The Englishman, 3 rd October 1910.

GREEK UNSEENS.*

WHEN I was but a little boy I knew tupto tuptomenoi,

And took a header, helter skelter, in A. B. G. A.

Or else a monumental joy in to kalon or oi polloi —

While stuffing up my mental bureaus with gentle paulo-post-futuros. Then floundered all around at ease in Bacchus of Euripides.

(The only ’bacca now I knows is ’bacca from Macropolo’s.)

I tackled stout Antiphanes at learned Aunty Fanny’s knees,

But, Antigone (that’s Aunty Fan) I cottoned up to Lucian.

She taught me how to print in prose, Lucydides and I did “ O.’s” We read Meander, just we two (’twas me and ’er not me and you). But never bothered about Plato and now alas it is too late — o. Iambic verse is naught to me (Iambiculiar you see)

And lost illusive ‘ 6 Greek unseens ’ ’ are much lamented might have beens.

Alas, alas, I’ve quite forgot the Liddell I mugged up from Scott ;

For Greek to me has never caught on, not as it ought gnothi Seauton.

The Englishman, 10 tli October 1910.

* From a Review of “Greek Unseens.” By Mr. W. Lobban.

104

“ ALICIA.”*

“ Alicia’s hobby for some years has been the collection of recipes for cakes and puddings— and a very good hobby too. These are now given to the world with the advice to take care in the actual mixing and cooking. All you then want is a Rippingill stove, and an even temper. When “ Alicia ” comes in at the door dyspepsia flies out at the window.”

rPHIS column’s not too long I think To praise a book from Thacker Spink That comes to lift dyspeptic gloom —

A booklet with the nom-de-plume

“ Alicia.’

“ Trust not the bobachee ,” it cries,

“ But engineer your own mince pies, For cJiota hazris, tiffins, teas From these well tested recipes.”

“Alicia.”

Its price a dib, its covers green With pages sixty-three between,

’Twill sweeten all your afternoons With maraschinod macaroons.

“ Alicia.”

“ Stir well and add vanilla spice Then mix with chopped pistachio ice !’ ’ (Such sound remarks are good to see And just the thing for you and me.)

“Alicia!”

And so on my best bookshelf lies This tested tale of priceless pies