 | Other People's Wings |  |
7
ULTIMA THULE.
O, thou art shaping into greatness, boy!
Thy book is pretty sure to surge next Spring:
And then! . . .
Thy book is pretty sure to surge next Spring:
And then! . . .
Huge stacks of thee will to the libraries go,
And all the virgins for a copy run:
And then! . . .
And all the virgins for a copy run:
And then! . . .
Thy tumbling hair will in the West be seen,
An oriflamme at plutocratic teas:
And then! . . .
An oriflamme at plutocratic teas:
And then! . . .
Thy portrait in the salons shall be hung,
Thy picture laugh from hot-press'd magazines:
And then! . . .
Thy picture laugh from hot-press'd magazines:
And then! . . .
Thy soul shall be upon vast serials spent,
Thy mystery spread upon the evening prints:
And then????
Thy mystery spread upon the evening prints:
And then????
13
A LITTLE LAY.
Three poets came to London town,
(Sing O for a crust and a stoup of ale!)
All proper men and all unknown,
(Sing O for patient merit!)
(Sing O for a crust and a stoup of ale!)
All proper men and all unknown,
(Sing O for patient merit!)
And one was a lovers' verse-maker,
(Sing Ring-a-ding-ding and Ring-a-ding-dee!)
And honey-sweet his verses were,
(Sing O for the pretty ladies!)
(Sing Ring-a-ding-ding and Ring-a-ding-dee!)
And honey-sweet his verses were,
(Sing O for the pretty ladies!)
And one dream'd old-world dreams, God wot,
(Sing O for the quaint pre-Raphaelite touch!)
And many a flashing ballad he wrote,
(Sing O for fit and finish!)
(Sing O for the quaint pre-Raphaelite touch!)
And many a flashing ballad he wrote,
(Sing O for fit and finish!)
And the third one was a man of might,
(Sing O for the flush'd, fair, scholarly page!)
And words of gold he did indite,
(Sing O for the quotable passage!)
(Sing O for the flush'd, fair, scholarly page!)
And words of gold he did indite,
(Sing O for the quotable passage!)
Now, these three go like fashion-plates,
(Sing O for the pink, beneficent cheque!)
And they lack neither wine nor delicates,
(Sing O for English Poesy!)
(Sing O for the pink, beneficent cheque!)
And they lack neither wine nor delicates,
(Sing O for English Poesy!)
15
KIPS.
After ‘Bobs.’
There's a little round-faced man,
Which is Kips,
Writes the finest stuff he can,
Our Kips,
Takes the cake fer fancy prose,
Has the Muses by the nose,
Makes us all sit up in rows—
Don't yer, Kips?
Which is Kips,
Writes the finest stuff he can,
Our Kips,
Takes the cake fer fancy prose,
Has the Muses by the nose,
Makes us all sit up in rows—
Don't yer, Kips?
An' 'e's travelled fur and far,
This 'ere Kips,
Seein' things just as they are,
Straight-tale Kips;
If it's bloo, or if it's brown,
Kiplin' kindly shoves it down
In a note-book of his own—
Busy Kips!
This 'ere Kips,
Seein' things just as they are,
Straight-tale Kips;
If it's bloo, or if it's brown,
Kiplin' kindly shoves it down
In a note-book of his own—
Busy Kips!
O 'e's eyes right up 'is coat,
Little Kips,
An' a siren in his throat,
Rudyard Kips;
An' when that there siren vents
All yer ear-drum feels in rents,
An' the listenin' continents
Says, ‘That's Kips!’
Little Kips,
An' a siren in his throat,
Rudyard Kips;
16
All yer ear-drum feels in rents,
An' the listenin' continents
Says, ‘That's Kips!’
Wot 'e don't know about life,
Mister Kips,
You can arst a pleeceman's wife—
Can't they, Kips?
If the nation cheers and yells,
An' its buzzim kinder swells,
'E trots out Recessionals,
Sined, ‘R. Kips.’
Mister Kips,
You can arst a pleeceman's wife—
Can't they, Kips?
If the nation cheers and yells,
An' its buzzim kinder swells,
'E trots out Recessionals,
Sined, ‘R. Kips.’
'E went queer the other day,
Poor old Kips,
Cruisin' somewheres Noo York way
Our Kips:
Ses the Fates, ‘Cum, Kiplin’, sup
Of this 'ere unpleasant cup!’
An' he took it standin' up,
Little Kips!
Poor old Kips,
Cruisin' somewheres Noo York way
Our Kips:
Ses the Fates, ‘Cum, Kiplin’, sup
Of this 'ere unpleasant cup!’
An' he took it standin' up,
Little Kips!
Nay—we couldn't let 'im go,
Our Kips,
'Cos we found we loved 'im so,
Little Kips;
'E has suffered grief and pain
'Nuff to turn a feller's brain;
BUT 'E'S GETTIN' WELL AGAIN—
Aint yer, Kips?
Our Kips,
'Cos we found we loved 'im so,
Little Kips;
'E has suffered grief and pain
'Nuff to turn a feller's brain;
BUT 'E'S GETTIN' WELL AGAIN—
Aint yer, Kips?
17
So 'ere's to Kips Bahadur,
Little Kips, Kips, Kips,
May 'e soon be on the larder,
Fightin' Kips, Kips, Kips!
This ain't no sort of ode,
But you've help'd the white man's load,
An' fer benefits bestowed,
Bless yer, Kips!
Little Kips, Kips, Kips,
May 'e soon be on the larder,
Fightin' Kips, Kips, Kips!
This ain't no sort of ode,
But you've help'd the white man's load,
An' fer benefits bestowed,
Bless yer, Kips!
18
THE ANCIENT CRITIC.
He watches the newcomers pass and throng,
His eyes half-shut against the noontide sun;
The lean, the sleek, the futile, and the strong
Before him run.
His eyes half-shut against the noontide sun;
The lean, the sleek, the futile, and the strong
Before him run.
Eager for praise and recognition, they
Bring him their dreams in gilt, and blue, and red,
And stuff'd with purple patches; but all day
He shakes his head.
Bring him their dreams in gilt, and blue, and red,
And stuff'd with purple patches; but all day
He shakes his head.
20
FOR A' THAT AND A' THAT.
Is there wha'd haver, i' a booth,
O' poor men's joys, and a' that,
And keek asklent at gear?—guid sooth,
We daur be rich for a' that!
For a' that, and a' that,
The cares o' wealth, an' a' that,
Gowd, mebbe, canna reese the deid,
But gowd's the thing for a' that!
O' poor men's joys, and a' that,
And keek asklent at gear?—guid sooth,
We daur be rich for a' that!
For a' that, and a' that,
The cares o' wealth, an' a' that,
Gowd, mebbe, canna reese the deid,
But gowd's the thing for a' that!
What tho', i' faith, we maunna dine
But ance a day, and a' that,
Oor thairms is streek wi' meat and wine,
We fend alang for a' that!
For a' that, and a' that,
Dyspepsia, and a' that:
A baggie fu's a baggie fu'—
Let's pang 'em fu' for a' that!
But ance a day, and a' that,
Oor thairms is streek wi' meat and wine,
We fend alang for a' that!
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Dyspepsia, and a' that:
A baggie fu's a baggie fu'—
Let's pang 'em fu' for a' that!
Ye see yon birkie wi' a hoe,
Wha earns his bread, and a' that,
He's hale, ye'll note, frae tap tae toe—
An's but a coof for a' that.
For a' that, and a' that,
His ‘appetite’ and a' that,
The man o' independent means
He looks and laughs at a' that.
Wha earns his bread, and a' that,
He's hale, ye'll note, frae tap tae toe—
An's but a coof for a' that.
For a' that, and a' that,
His ‘appetite’ and a' that,
The man o' independent means
He looks and laughs at a' that.
The poor hae mony preevileges,
Which—they may keep, for a' that;
They dinna ken what trouble is,
We'll no repine for a' that:
For a' that, and a' that,
Their blissfu' state, and a' that,
The chiel wi' siller i' his pooch
Aye gets the pu' for a' that.
Which—they may keep, for a' that;
They dinna ken what trouble is,
We'll no repine for a' that:
For a' that, and a' that,
Their blissfu' state, and a' that,
The chiel wi' siller i' his pooch
Aye gets the pu' for a' that.
Then let us pray that come it may—
It winna come for a' that—
That on this earth, a' men be worth
Ten thoosand pund, and a' that:
For a' that, and a' that,
'Twould mak a change would a' that,
And man to man, the warld o'er
Might brithers be, wi' a' that!
It winna come for a' that—
That on this earth, a' men be worth
Ten thoosand pund, and a' that:
25
'Twould mak a change would a' that,
And man to man, the warld o'er
Might brithers be, wi' a' that!
26
TO ERMYNTRUDE ------
Madame or Mademoiselle, as the case may be,
Behold this chaplet—
Delectable, fragrant, mainly of roses—
Lo, 'tis for your incomparable brows!
Behold this chaplet—
Delectable, fragrant, mainly of roses—
Lo, 'tis for your incomparable brows!
Madame or Mademoiselle,
Your charming ‘at homes’
Provide us with matter for many triolets,
Your wit is like an ever-living fountain,
The sparkle whereof makes one positively wink;
Your person,
From the sunshine that crowns it
Down to the ambrosial clock'd stockings
And microcosmic shoon that round it off, so to speak,
Your person merits the Apple,
And Paris himself would have said so
Had he had the felicity to know you.
Your charming ‘at homes’
Provide us with matter for many triolets,
Your wit is like an ever-living fountain,
The sparkle whereof makes one positively wink;
Your person,
From the sunshine that crowns it
Down to the ambrosial clock'd stockings
And microcosmic shoon that round it off, so to speak,
Your person merits the Apple,
And Paris himself would have said so
Had he had the felicity to know you.
Consequently, Madame or Mademoiselle,
When next your lord or your love
Goeth forth to his labour,
I pray you hint to him
Of this mine offering,
For, if you do so,
He may be moved to thankfulness,
And by way of a quid pro quo,
Inform the gaping rabblement
(From the vantage-ground of half-a-dozen high-class prints)
That I too have managed to jam my knees
Under the Olympian mahogany;
That I too am an improvement on Wordsworth,
Coleridge without chaos,
Keats uncockneyfied,
Shelley effectualised,
Browning made obvious,
The inheritor of the excellent habiliments of Tennyson,
And a full-blown British poet!
When next your lord or your love
Goeth forth to his labour,
I pray you hint to him
30
For, if you do so,
He may be moved to thankfulness,
And by way of a quid pro quo,
Inform the gaping rabblement
(From the vantage-ground of half-a-dozen high-class prints)
That I too have managed to jam my knees
Under the Olympian mahogany;
That I too am an improvement on Wordsworth,
Coleridge without chaos,
Keats uncockneyfied,
Shelley effectualised,
Browning made obvious,
The inheritor of the excellent habiliments of Tennyson,
And a full-blown British poet!
31
ODE
On the Death of the ‘Sunday Daily Telegraph.’
How sleeps the sheet that sinks to rest
In innocent babyhood—supprest
Without a word, without a hint,
Excepting these two lines of print:—
‘Our paper, published heretofore,
Will not be published any more.’
In innocent babyhood—supprest
Without a word, without a hint,
Excepting these two lines of print:—
‘Our paper, published heretofore,
Will not be published any more.’
By bishops' hands its knell is rung,
By Hugh Price Hughes its dirge is sung,
There Harmsworth comes, a pilgrim gray,
To wipe th' unbidden tear away,
And Rosebery shall oft repair
To do some private smiling there.
By Hugh Price Hughes its dirge is sung,
There Harmsworth comes, a pilgrim gray,
To wipe th' unbidden tear away,
And Rosebery shall oft repair
To do some private smiling there.
| Other People's Wings | |