Verse and Worse

Don't fall in love, but, when you do,Take care that he (or she) does too;And, lastly, to misquote the bard,If you must love, don't love too hard.

XXII

HOMELAND

The tour is over! We must part!Our mutual journey at an end.O bid farewell, with aching heart,To guide, philosopher, and friend;And note, as you remark 'Good-bye!'The kindly tear that dims his eye.The tour is ended! Sad but true!No more together may we roam!We turn our lonely footsteps toThe spot that's known as Home, Sweet Home.Nor time nor temper can affordA more protracted trip abroad.O Home! where we must always beSo hopelessly misunderstood;Where waits a tactless family,To tell us things 'for our own good';Where relatives, with searchlight eyes,Can penetrate our choicest lies.Where all our kith and kin combineTo prove that we are worse than rude,If we should criticise the wineOr make complaints about the food.Thank goodness, then, to quote the pome,Thank goodness there's 'no place like Home!'

PART II

CHILDISH COMPLAINTS

AND

OTHER RUTHLESS RHYMES

CHILDISH COMPLAINTS

PRELUDE

(By Way of Advertisement)I have no knowledge of disease,No notion what ill-health may be,Since Housemaid's Throat and Smoker's KneesMean something different to meTo what they do to other folk.(This is, I vow, no vulgar joke.)Of course, when young, I had complaints,And little childish accidents;For twice I ate a box of paints,And once I swallowed eighteen pence.(N.B., I missed the paints a lot,But got the coins back on the spot.)But no practitioner has seenMy tongue since then, down to the present,And I, alas! have never beenAn interesting convalescent.Ah! why am I alone deniedThe Humour of a weak inside?Why is it? I will tell you why;A certain mixture is to blame.One day for fun I chanced to tryA bottle of – what is the name?That thing they advertise a lot, —(Oh, what a memory I've got!)It's stuff you must, of course, have seen,Retailed in bottles, tins, or pots,In cakes or little pills, I mean —(Oh goodness me! I've bought such lots,That I am really much to blameFor not remembering the name!)Still, let me recommend a keg(With maker's name, be sure, above it),'Tis sweeter than a new-mown egg,And village idiots simply love it;Old persons sit and scream for it, —I do so hope you'll try a bit!So efficacious is this stuff,Its virtue and its strength are such,One single bottle is enough, —In fact, at times, 'tis far too much.(The patient dies in frightful pain,Or else survives, and tries again.)An aunt of mine felt anyhow,All kind-of-odd, and gone-to-bits,Had freckles badly too; but nowShe doesn't have a thing but fits.She's just as strong as any horse, —Tho' still an invalid, of course.I had an uncle, too, that way,His health was in a dreadful plight;Would often spend a sleepless day,And lie unconscious half the night.He took two bottles, large and small,And now – he has no health at all!The Moral plainly bids you buyThis stuff, whose name I have forgotten;You won't regret it, if you try —(My memory is simply rotten!)My funds will profit, in addition,Since I enjoy a small commission!

CHILDISH COMPLAINTS

No. 1 (Appendicitis)I've got AppendicitisIn my Appendicit,But I don't mind,Because I findI'm quite 'cut out' for it.No. 2. (Whooping-cough)If only I had Whooping-cough!I'd join a Circus troupe!And folks would clamour at the door,And pay a shilling – even more,To see me 'Whoop The Whoop.'No. 3. (Measles)Of illnesses like chickenpoxAnd measles I've had lots;I do not like them much, you know,They are not really nice, altho'They're rather nice in spots.No. 4. (Adenoids)A Cockney maid produced such snores,Folks left the City to avoid them;And all becos,She said, it wasHer adenoids that 'ad annoyed them!No. 5. (Croup)I had the Croup, in years gone by,And that is why to-day,Altho' no longer youthful, IAm still a Croupier.

RUTHLESS RHYMES

I

MOTHER-WIT

When wilful little Willie BlackThrew all the tea-things at his mother,She murmured, as she hurled them back,'One good Tea-urn deserves another!'

II

UNCLE JOE

Poor Uncle Joe has gone, you know,To rest beyond the stars.I miss him, oh! I miss him so, —He had such good cigars.

III

AUNT ELIZA

In the drinking-well(Which the plumber built her)Aunt Eliza fell, —We must buy a filter.

IV

ABSENT-MINDEDNESS

Absent-minded Edward BrownDrove his lady into town;Suddenly the horse fell down!Mrs. Ned(Newly wed)Threw a fit and lay for dead.Edward, lacking in resource,Chafed the fetlocks of his horse,Sitting with unpleasant force(Just like lead)On the headOf the prostrate Mrs. Ned.She demanded a divorce,Jealous of the favoured horse.Edward had it shot, of course.…Years have sped;She and NedDrive a motor now instead.

V

JOHN

John, across the broad Atlantic,Tried to navigate a barque,But he met an unromanticAnd extremely hungry shark.John (I blame his childhood's teachers)Thought to treat this as a lark,Ignorant of how these creaturesDo delight to bite a barque.Said, 'This animal's a bore!' and,With a scornful sort of grin,Handled an adjacent oar andChucked it underneath the chin.At this unexpected juncture,Which he had not reckoned on,Mr. Shark he made a punctureIn the barque – and then in John.…Sad am I, and sore at thinkingJohn had on some clothes of mine;I can almost see them shrinking,Washed repeatedly in brine.I shall never cease regrettingThat I lent my hat to him,For I fear a thorough wettingCannot well improve the brim.Oh! to know a shark is browsing,Boldly, blandly, on my boots!Coldly, cruelly carousingOn the choicest of my suits!Creatures I regard with loathing,Who can calmly take their fillOf one's Jaeger underclothing: —Down, my aching heart, be still!

VI

BABY

Baby roused its father's ire,By a cold and formal lisp;So he placed it on the fire,And reduced it to a crisp.Mother said, 'Oh, stop a bit!This is overdoing it!'

VII

THE CAT

(Advice to the Young)My children, you should imitateThe harmless, necessary cat,Who eats whatever's on his plate,And doesn't even leave the fat;Who never stays in bed too late,Or does immoral things like that;Instead of saying, 'Shan't!' or 'Bosh!'He'll sit and wash, and wash, and wash!When shadows fall and lights grow dim,He sits beneath the kitchen stair;Regardless as to life and limb,A shady lair he chooses there;And if you tumble over him,He simply loves to hear you swear.And, while bad language you prefer,He'll sit and purr, and purr, and purr!

PART III

PERVERTED PROVERBS

I

'VIRTUE IS ITS OWN REWARD'

Virtue its own reward? Alas!And what a poor one, as a rule!Be Virtuous, and Life will passLike one long term of Sunday-school.(No prospect, truly, could one findMore unalluring to the mind.)The Model Child has got to keepHis fingers and his garments white;In church he may not go to sleep,Nor ask to stop up late at night.In fact he must not ever doA single thing he wishes to.He may not paddle in his boots,Like naughty children, at the sea;The sweetness of Forbidden FruitsIs not, alas! for such as he.He watches, with pathetic eyes,His weaker brethren make mud-pies.He must not answer back, oh no!However rude grown-ups may be;But keep politely silent, tho'He brim with scathing repartee;For nothing is considered worseThan scoring off Mamma or Nurse.He must not eat too much at meals,Nor scatter crumbs upon the floor;However vacuous he feels,He may not pass his plate for more;– Not tho' his ev'ry organ acheFor further slabs of Christmas cake.He is commanded not to wasteThe fleeting hours of childhood's days,By giving way to any tasteFor circuses or matinées;For him the entertainments plannedAre 'Lectures on the Holy Land.'He never reads a story-bookBy Rider H. or Winston C.,In vain upon his desk you'd lookFor tales by Arthur Conan D.,Nor could you find upon his shelfThe works of Rudyard – or myself!He always fears that he may doSome action that is infra dig.,And so he lives his short life throughIn the most noxious rôle of Prig.('Short Life' I say, for it's agreedThe Good die very young indeed.)Ah me! how sad it is to thinkHe could have lived like me – or you!With practice, and a taste for drink,Our joys he might have known, he too!And shared the pleasure we have hadIn being gloriously bad!The Naughty Boy gets much delightFrom doing what he should not do;But, as such conduct isn't Right,He sometimes suffers for it, too.Yet, what's a spanking to the funOf leaving vital things Undone?The Wicked flourish like the bay,At Cards or Love they always win,Good Fortune dogs their steps all day,They fatten while the Good grow thin.The Righteous Man has much to bear;The Bad becomes a Bullionaire!For, though he be the greatest sham,Luck favours him, his whole life through;At 'Bridge' he always makes a SlamAfter declaring 'Sans atout';With ev'ry deal his fate has plannedA hundred Aces in his hand.Yes, it is always just the same;He somehow manages to win,By mere good fortune, any gameThat he may be competing in.At Golf no bunker breaks his club,For him the green provides no 'rub.'At Billiards, too, he flukes away(With quite unnecessary 'side');No matter what he tries to play,For him the pockets open wide;He never finds both balls in baulk,Or makes miss-cues for want of chalk.He swears; he very likely bets;He even wears a flaming necktie;Inhales Egyptian cigarettes,And has a 'Mens Inconscia Recti';Yet, spite of all, one must confessThat nought succeeds like his excess.There's no occasion to be Just,No need for motives that are fine,To be Director of a Trust,Or Manager of a Combine;Your Corner is a public curse,Perhaps, but it will fill your purse.Then stride across the Public's bones,Crush all opponents under you,Until you 'rise on stepping-stonesOf their dead selves'; and, when you do,The widow's and the orphan's tearsShall comfort your declining years!…Myself, how lucky I must be,That need not fear so gross an end;Since Fortune has not favoured meWith many million pounds to spend.(Still, did that fickle Dame relent,I'd show you how they should be spent!)I am not saint enough to feelMy shoulder ripen to a wing,Nor have I wits enough to stealHis title from the Copper King;And there's a vasty gulf betweenThe man I Am and Might Have Been;But tho' at dinner I may takeToo much of Heidsick (extra dry),And underneath the table makeMy simple couch just where I lie,My mode of roosting on the floorIs just a trick and nothing more.And when, not Wisely but too Well,My thirst I have contrived to quench,The stories I am apt to tellMay be, perhaps, a trifle French; —(For 'tis in anecdote, no doubt,That what's Bred in the Beaune comes out.) —It does not render me unfitTo give advice, both wise and right,Because I do not follow itMyself as closely as I might;There's nothing that I wouldn't doTo point the proper road to you.And this I'm sure of, more or less,And trust that you will all agree —The Elements of HappinessConsist in being – just like Me;No sinner, nor a saint perhaps,But – well, the very best of chaps.Share the Experience I have had,Consider all I've known and seen,And Don't be Good, and Don't be Bad,But cultivate a Golden Mean.…What makes Existence really niceIs Virtue – with a dash of Vice.

II

'ENOUGH IS AS GOOD AS A FEAST'

What is Enough? An idle dream!One cannot have enough, I swear,Of Ices or Meringues-and-Cream,Nougat or Chocolate Éclairs,Of Oysters or of Caviar,Of Prawns or Pâté de Foie Grar!Who would not willingly forsakeKindred and Home, without a fuss,For Icing from a Birthday Cake,Or juicy fat Asparagus,And journey over countless seasFor New Potatoes and Green Peas?They say that a Contented MindIs a Continual Feast; – but whereThe mental frame, and how to find,Which can with Turtle Soup compare?No mind, however full of Ease,Could be Continual Toasted Cheese.For dinner have a sole to eat(Some Perrier Jouet, '92),An Entrée then (and, with the meat,A bottle of Lafitte will do),A quail, a glass of port (just one),Liqueurs and coffee, and you've done.Your tastes may be of simpler type; —A homely pint of 'half-and-half,'An onion and a dish of tripe,Or headpiece of the kindly calf.(Cruel perhaps, but then, you know,''Faut tout souffrir pour être veau!')'Tis a mistake to eat too muchOf any dishes but the best;And you, of course, should never touchA thing you know you can't digest;For instance, lobster: – if you do,Well, – I'm amayonnaised at you!Let this be your heraldic crest:A bottle (chargé) of Champagne,A chicken (gorged) with salad (dress'd),Below, this motto to explain —'Enough is Very Good, may be;Too Much is Good Enough for Me!'

III

'DON'T BUY A PIG IN A POKE'

Unscrupulous Pigmongers willAttempt to wheedle and to coaxThe ignorant young housewife tillShe purchases her pigs in pokes;Beasts that have got a Lurid Past,Or else are far Too Good to Last.So, should you not desire to beThe victim of a cruel hoax,Then promise me, ah! promise me,You will not purchase pigs in pokes!('Twould be an error just as bigTo poke your purchase in a pig.)Too well I know the bitter cost,To turn this subject off with jokes;How many fortunes have been lostBy men who purchased pigs in pokes.(Ah! think on such when you would talkWith mouths that are replete with pork!)And, after dinner, round the fire,Astride of Grandpa's rugged knee,Implore your bored but patient sireTo tell you what a Poke may be.The fact he might disclose to you —Which is far more than I can do.…The Moral of The Pigs and PokesIs not to make your choice too quick.In purchasing a Book of Jokes,Pray poke around and take your pick.Who knows how rich a mental mealThe covers of this book conceal?

IV

'LEARN TO TAKE THINGS EASILY'

To these few words, it seems to me,A wealth of sound instruction clings;O Learn to Take things easily —Espeshly Other People's Things;And Time will make your fingers deftAt what is known as Petty Theft.'Fools and Their Money soon must part!'And you can help this on, may be,If, in the kindness of your Heart,You Learn to Take things easily;And be, with little education,A Prince of Misappropriation.

V

'A ROLLING STONE GATHERS NO MOSS'

I never understood, I own,What anybody (with a soul)Could mean by offering a StoneThis needless warning not to Roll;And what inducement there can beTo gather Moss, I fail to see.I'd sooner gather anything,Like primroses, or news perhaps,Or even wool (when sufferingA momentary mental lapse);But could forgo my share of moss,Nor ever realise the loss.'Tis a botanical disease,And worthy of remark as such;Lending a dignity to trees,To ruins a romantic touch;A timely adjunct, I've no doubt,But not worth writing home about.Of all the Stones I ever met,In calm repose upon the ground,I really never found one yetWith a desire to roll around;Theirs is a stationary rôle.(A joke, – and feeble on the whole.)But, if I were a stone, I swearI'd sooner move and view the World,Than sit and grow the greenest hairThat ever Nature combed and curled.I see no single saving graceIn being known as 'Mossyface'!Instead, I might prove useful forA weapon in the hand of Crime,A paperweight, a milestone, orA missile at Election-time;In each capacity I couldDo quite incalculable good.When well directed from the Pit,I might promote a welcome death,If fortunate enough to hitSome budding Hamlet or Macbeth,Who twice each day the playhouse fills, —(For Further Notice see Small Bills).At concerts, too, if you prefer,I could prevent your growing deafBy silencing the amateurBefore she reached that upper F;Or else, in lieu of half-a-brick,Restrain some local Kubelik.Then, human stones, take my advice,(As you should always do, indeed);This proverb may be very nice,But don't you pay it any heed,And, tho' you make the critics cross,Roll on, and never mind the moss!

VI

'IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND'

Since it can never be too lateTo change your life, or else renew it,Let the unpleasant process wait,Until you are compelled to do it.The State provides (and gratis too)Establishments for such as you.Remember this, and pluck up heart,That, be you publican or parson,Your ev'ry art must have a start,From petty larceny to arson;And even in the burglar's trade,The cracksman is not born, but made.So, if in your career of crime,You fail to carry out some 'coup,'Then try again a second time,And yet again, until you do;And don't despair, or fear the worst,Because you get found out at first.Perhaps the battle will not go,On all occasions, to the strongest;You may be fairly certain tho'That He Laughs Last who Laughs the Longest.So keep a good reserve of laughter,Which may be found of use hereafter.Believe me that, howe'er well meant,A good resolve is always brief;Don't let your precious hours be spentIn turning over a new leaf.Such leaves, like Nature's, soon decay,And then are only in the way.The Road to – well, a certain spot(A road of very fair dimensions),Has, so the proverb tells us, gotA parquet-floor of Good Intentions.Take care, in your desire to please,You do not add a brick to these.For there may come a moment whenYou shall be mended, willy-nilly,With many more misguided men,Whose skill is undermined with skilly.Till then procrastinate, my friend;'It Never is Too Late to Mend!'

VII

'A BAD WORKMAN COMPLAINS OF HIS TOOLS'

This pen of mine is simply grand,I never loved a pen so much;This paper (underneath my hand)Is really a delight to touch;And never in my life, I think,Did I make use of finer ink.The subject upon which I writeIs ev'rything that I could choose;I seldom knew my wits more bright,More cosmopolitan my views;Nor ever did my head containSo surplus a supply of brain!

VIII

'DON'T LOOK A GIFT-HORSE IN THE MOUTH'

I knew a man who lived down South;He thought this maxim to defy;He looked a Gift-horse in the Mouth;The Gift-horse bit him in the Eye!And, while the steed enjoyed his bite,My Southern friend mislaid his sight.Now, had this foolish man, that day,Observed the Gift-horse in the Heel,It might have kicked his brains away,But that's a loss he would not feel;Because, you see (need I explain?),My Southern friend has got no brain.When any one to you presentsA poodle, or a pocket-knife,A set of Ping-pong instruments,A banjo or a lady-wife,'Tis churlish, as I understand,To grumble that they're second-hand.And he who termed IngratitudeAs 'worser nor a servant's tooth'Was evidently well imbuedWith all the elements of Truth;(While he who said 'Uneasy liesThe tooth that wears a crown' was wise).'One must be poor,' George Eliot said,'To know the luxury of giving';So too one really should be deadTo realise the joy of living.(I'd sooner be – I don't know which —I'd like to be alive and rich!)This book may be a Gift-horse too,And one you surely ought to prize;If so, I beg you, read it through,With kindly and uncaptious eyes,Not grumbling because this particular line doesn't happen to scan,And this one doesn't rhyme!

IX

POTPOURRI

There are many more Maxims to whichI would like to accord a front place,But alas! I have gotTo omit a whole lot,For the lack of available space;And the rest I am forced to boil down and condenseTo the following Essence of Sound without Sense:Now the Pitcher that journeys too oftTo the Well will get broken at last.But you'll find it a factThat, by using some tact,Such a danger as this can be past.(There's an obvious way, and a simple, you'll own,Which is, if you're a Pitcher, to Let Well alone.)Half a loafer is never well-bred,And Self-Praise is a Dangerous Thing.And the mice are at playWhen the Cat is away,For a moment, inspecting a King.(Tho' if Care kills a Cat, as the Proverbs declare,It is right to suppose that the King will take care.)Don't Halloo till you're out of the Wood,When a Stitch in Good Time will save Nine,While a Bird in the HandIs worth Two, understand,In the Bush that Needs no Good Wine.(Tho' the two, if they Can sing but Won't, have been known,By an accurate aim to be killed with one Stone.)Never Harness the Cart to the Horse;Since the latter should be à la carte.Also, Birds of a FeatherCome Flocking Together,– Because they can't well Flock Apart.(You may cast any Bread on the Waters, I think,But, unless I'm mistaken, you can't make it Sink.)It is only the Fool who remarksThat there Can't be a Fire without Smoke;Has he never yet learnedHow the gas can be turnedOn the best incombustible coke?(Would you value a man by the checks on his suits,And forget 'que c'est le premier passbook qui Coutts?')Now 'De Mortuis Nil Nisi Bonum,'Is Latin, as ev'ry one owns;If your domicile beNear a Mortuaree,You should always avoid throwing bones.(I would further remark, if I could, – but I couldn't —That People Residing in Glasshouses shouldn't.)You have heard of the Punctual Bird,Who was First in presenting his Bill;But I pray you'll be firm,And remember the WormHad to get up much earlier still;(So that, if you can't rise in the morning, then Don't;And be certain that Where there's a Will there's a Won't.)You can give a bad name to a Dog,And hang him by way of excuse;Whereas Hunger, of course;Is by far the Best SauceFor the Gander as well as the Goose.(But you shouldn't judge any one just by his looks,For a Surfeit of Broth ruins too many Cooks.)With the fact that Necessity knowsNine Points of the Law, you'll agree.There are just as Good FishTo be found on a DishAs you ever could catch in the Sea.(You should Look ere you Leap on a Weasel Asleep,And I've also remarked that Still Daughters Run Cheap.)The much trodden-on Lane will Turn,And a Friend is in Need of a Friend;But the Wisest of Saws,Like the Camel's Last Straws,Or the Longest of Worms, have an end.So, before out of Patience a Virtue you make,A decisive farewell of these maxims we'll take.

PART IV

OTHER VERSES

BILL

(Told by the Hospital Orderly)At Modder, where I met 'im fust,I thought as 'ow ole Bill was dead;A splinter, from a shell wot bust,'Ad fetched 'im somewheres in the 'ead;But there! It takes a deal to killThem thick-thatched sort o' blokes like Bill.In the field-'orspital, nex' day,The doctors was a-makin' outThe 'casualty returns,' an' theyComes up an' pulls ole Bill about;Ole Colonel Wilks, 'e turns to me,'Report this "dangerous,"' sez 'e.But Bill, 'oo must 'ave 'eard it too,'E calls the doctor, quick as thought:'I'd take it kindly, sir, if you'Could keep me out o' the report.'For tho' I'm 'it, an' 'it severe,'I doesn't want my friends to 'ear.'I've a ole mother, 'way in Kent,''Oo thinks the very world o' me;'I'd thank you if I wasn't sent'As "wounded dangerous,"' sez 'e;'For if she 'ears I'm badly hit,'I lay she won't get over it.'At Landman's Drift she lost a lad'(With the 18th 'Ussars 'e fell),'Poor soul, she'd take it mighty bad'To think o' losin' me as well;'So please, sir, if it's hall the same,'I'd ask you not to send my name.'The Colonel bloke 'e thinks a bit,'Oh, well,' sez 'e, 'per'aps you're right.'And, now I come to look at it,'I'll send you in as "scalp-wound, slight."'O' course it's wrong of me, but still – ''Gawd bless you, sir, an' thanks!' sez Bill.…'E didn't die; 'e scrambled through.They hoperated on 'is 'ead,An' Gawd knows wot they didn't do, —'Tripoded' 'im, I think they said.I see'd 'im, Toosday, in Pall Mall,Nor never knowed 'im look so well.Yes, Bill 'e's going strong just now,In London, an' employed again;Tho' it's a fact, 'e sez, as 'owThe doctors took out 'alf 'is brain!Ho well, 'e won't 'ave need o' this —'E's working at the War Office.

THE LEGEND OF THE AUTHOR

(A long way after Ingoldsby)When Anthony Adamson first went to schoolThe reception he got was decidedly cool;And, because he was utterly hopeless at games,He was given all sorts of opprobrious names,Which ranged the whole gamut from 'fat-head' to 'fool';For boys as a rule, Are what nurses call 'crool,''Tis their natural instinct, which nobody blames,Any more than the habits Peculiar to rabbits,To label a duffer 'old woman' or 'muff,' orSome name calculated to cause him to suffer.They failed in their treatment this time, on the whole,Since our Anthony thoroughly pitied the rôleOf the oaf who is muddied, (For Kipling he'd studied),However strong-hearted, broad-limbed, and warm-blooded,Who sits in a goal, Quite deficient of soul,And as blind to the beauties of Life as a mole.He was rather a curious boy, was this youth,And a bit of a prig, if you must know the truth,And his comrades considered him weird and uncouth,For he didn't much mind When they left him behind,And, intent upon cricket, Went off to the wicket;Some other less heating employment he'd find,And, while his young playfellows fielded and batted,This curious fat-head, Ink-fingered, hair-matted,Would take a new pen from his pocket, and lick it,Then into the ink-bottle thoughtfully stick it,And, chewing the holder ('Twas fashioned of gold,Or at least so 'twas sold By a stationer bold,And at any rate furnished a good imitation),In deep rumination, With much mastication,And wonderful patience, Await inspirations;And brilliant ideas would arrive on occasions;When frequently followed, The pen being swallowed,As up to his eyes in the inkpot he wallowed.So all the day long and for half of the nightWould young Anthony Adamson nibble and write,With extravagant feelings of joy and delight,And it may sound absurd, But 'twas thus, as I've heard,That he learnt to acquire the appropriate word;And altho' composition, Which was his ambition,At first proved a trifle untamed and refractory;Arrived in a while At evolving a styleWhich a Stevenson even might deem satisfactory.Now when Anthony A. was as yet in his 'teensHe began to take aim at the big magazines,With articles, verses, and little love-scenes;And short stories he wrote, Which he sent with a note(Which I haven't the space nor the leisure to quote),Containing a humble request, and a hope,And some stamps and a clearly addressed envelope.Now a few of these got to the Editor's desk,And he found them well-written and quite picturesque,And he sighed to see talent like this go to wasteOn what couldn't appeal to the popular taste.For the Public, you see (With a capital P),Doesn't care what it reads, just so long as it beSomething really exciting, however bad writing,With wonderful heroes, And villains like Neroes,Who, running as serials, Wearing imperials,Revel in bloodshed and bombast and fighting.So back to the Author his manuscript went;Altho' sometimes a friendly old Editor sentAn encouraging letter, To say he'd do betterTo lower his style to the popular level;When Anthony proudly (Of course not out loudly,But mentally) told him to go to the devil!But a few of his articles never came back,And their whereabouts no one was able to track,For some persons who edited, (Can it be credited?)Finding it paid them, Unduly mislaid them(Behaviour most rare Nowadays anywhere,And to ev'ry tradition entirely opposed),And grew fat on the numerous stamps he enclosed.Tho' to this I am really unable to swear,Or at any rate haven't the courage to dare.Now when Anthony Adamson grew rather older,And wiser, and bolder, And broader of shoulder,He thought he'd a fancy to write for the Press, —'Tis a common idea with the young, more or less; —And he saw himself doing Critiques and reviewingThe latest new books as they came from the printers;To set them on thrones or to smash them to splinters,To damn with faint praise, Or with eulogies raise,As he banned or he blest, Just whatever seemed bestTo the wit and the wisdom of twenty-three winters.But when he had carefully read thro' the papers,Arranged to the taste of our nation of drapers,And wisely as Solomon Studied each column, anAwful attack of despair and depressionAssailed him, and then, As he threw down his pen,He was forced to confess To no hope of success,If he entered the great journalistic profession.For the only description of 'copy' that pays,In the journals that ev'ry one reads nowadays,Is the personal matter, Impertinent chatter,The tales of the tailor, the barber, the hatter;Society small talk, And mere servants'-hall talk,The sort of what's-nobody's-business-at-all-talk;And those who can handle The latest big scandalWith the taste of a Thug and the tact of a Vandal,Whatever society paper they write in,Can always provide what their readers delight in.An article, vulgarly written, which dealsWith the food that celebrities eat at their mealsTo the popular intellect always appeals.People laugh themselves hoarse At the latest divorce,While a peer's breach of promise is comic, of course;How eager each face is, As ev'ry one racesTo read the details of the Cruelty cases!And a magistrate's pun Is considered good fun,And arouses the bench of reporters from torpor,When it's at the expense of some broken-down pauper!So Anthony pondered the different waysOf attaining and gaining the popular praise;And selected a score of his brightest essays,Just enough for a book, Which he hopefully tookTo some publishers, thinking perhaps they would lookAt what might (as he couldn't help modestly hinting)Repay the expense and the trouble of printing.Now the publishers all were extremely polite,And encouraging quite, For they saw he could write;But the answer they gave him was always the same.'You are not,' so they said, 'in the least bit to blame,And your style is so good, Be it well understood,We'd be happy to publish your work if we could;But alas! All the people who know are agreedThis is not what the Public demands, or would read.'It is over the head Of the people,' they said.'If you'd only write down to the popular level!'(Once more, he replied, they could go to the devil!)The result to our author was not unexpected,And, as on his failures he sadly reflected,He took out his pen and a nib he selected,Then wrote (and his verses Were studded with curses)This poem, the Lay of the Author (Rejected).The rejected Author's cupComes from out a bitter bin,Constable won't 'take him up,'Chambers will not 'take him in.'Publishers, when interviewed,Each alas! in turn looks Black;De la Rue is De-la-rude,Nutt is far too hard to crack.Author, humble as a vassal(He is feeling Low as well),Sadly waits without the Cassell,Vainly tries to press the Bell.Author, hourly growing leaner,Finds each day his jokes more rare,Asks the Longman if he's Green, orSpottiswoode to take the Eyre.Author, blithe as lark each morning,Finds each night his tale unheard,And, when Fred'rick gives him Warn(e)ing,Is not Gay as any Bird.Author, to his writings partial,Musters their array en bloc,Which the Simpkins will not Marshall,And the Elliot will not Stock.Tho' for little he be yearning,Yet that little Long he'll want,When the Lane has got no turning,And the Richards will not Grant.Now when Anthony's life it grew harder and harder;Less coal in the cellar, less meat in the larder;He thought for a while, And at last (with a smile)He determined to sacrifice even his style.So he wrote just whatever came into his head,Without any regard for the living or dead,Or for what his friends thought or his enemies said.From his style he effaced, As incentives to waste,All the canons of grammar and even good taste;And so book after book after book he brought out,Which you've probably read, and you know all about;For the publishers bought them, And ev'ry one thought themSo splendidly vulgar, that no one had everRead anything quite so improperly clever.He tried ev'ry style, from the fashion of Ouida's(His characters being Society Leaders;The Heroine, suited to middle-class readers, —A governess she, who might well have been humbler;The Hero a Duke, an inveterate grumbler;And a Guardsman who drank crême-de-menthe from a tumbler)To that of another more popular lady,And wrote about aristocrats who were shady,And showed that the persons you happen to meetIn the Very Best Houses are always effete;That they gamble all night, in particular sets,And (Oh, hasn't she said it, Tho' can it be credit-Ed?) have no intention of paying their debts!His best, which the Critics said 'teemed with expression,'Was the one-volume novel 'A Drunkard's Confession';The next, 'My Good Woman. A Love Tale'; another,Most popular this, 'The Flirtations of Mother';And lastly, the crowning success of his life,'How the Other Half Lives. By a Baronet's Wife.'And the Publishers now are all down on their knees,As they offer what fees He may happen to please;And success he discerns As with rapture he learnsThe amount that he earns From his roy'lty returns.(N.B. – I omit the last 'a' here in Royalty,For reasons of scansion and not from disloyalty.)The moral of this is quite easy to see;If a popular author you're anxious to be,You won't care a digamma For truth or for grammar,Be far from straitlaced Upon questions of taste,And don't trouble to polish your style or to bevel,But always write down to the popular level;Be vulgar and smart, And you'll get to the heartOf the persons directing the lit'rary mart,And your writings must reach (It's a figure of speech)The – (well, what shall we call it – compositor's) devil!