THE briny tears unbidden start, At mention of my hero's name! Was ever set so huge a heart Within so small a frame? So much of tenderness and grace Confined in such a slender space?
(O tiniest of tiny men! So wise, so whimsical, so witty! Whose magic little fairy-pen Is steeped in human pity; Whose humour plays so quaint a tune, From Peter Pan to Pantaloon!)
So wide a sympathy has he, Such kindliness without an end, That children clamber on his knee, And claim him as a friend; They somehow know he understands, And doesn't mind their sticky hands.
And so they swarm about his neck, With energy that nothing wearies, Assured that he will never check Their ceaseless flow of queries, And grateful, with a warm affection, For his avuncular protection.
And when his watch he opens wide, Or beats them all at blowing bubbles, They tell him how the dormouse died, And all their tiny troubles; And drag him, if he seems deprest, To see the baby squirrel's nest.
For hidden treasure he can dig, Pursue the Indians in the wood, Feed the prolific guinea-pig With inappropriate food; Do all the things that mattered so In happy days of long ago.
All this he can achieve, and more! For, 'neath the magic of his brain, The young are younger than before, The old grow young again, To dream of Beauty and of Truth For hearts that win eternal youth.
Fat apoplectic men I know, With well-developed Little Marys, Look almost human when they show Their faith in Barrie's fairies; Their blank lethargic faces lighten In admiration of his Crichton.
To lovers who, with fingers cold, Attempt to fan some dying ember, He brings the happy days of old, And bids their hearts remember; Recalling in romantic fashion The tenderness of earlier passion.
And modern matrons who can find So little leisure for the Nurs'ry, Whose interest in babykind Is eminently curs'ry, New views on Motherhood acquire From Alice-sitting-by-the-Fire!
While men of every sort and kind, At times of sunshine or of trouble, In Sentimental Tommy find Their own amazing double; To each in turn the mem'ry comes Of some belov'd forgotten Thrums.
To Barrie's literary art That strong poetic sense is clinging Which hears, in ev'ry human heart, A "late lark" faintly singing, A bird that bears upon its wing The promise of perpetual Spring.
Materialists may labour much At problems for the modern stage; His simpler methods reach and touch The Young of ev'ry age; And first and second childhood meet On common ground at Barrie's feet!
Omar Khayyam
THOUGH many a great Philosopher Has earned the Epicure's diploma, Not one of them, as I aver, So much deserved the prize as Omar; For he, without the least misgiving, Combined High Thinking and High Living.
He lived in Persia, long ago, Upon a somewhat slender pittance; And Persia is, as you may know, The home of Shahs and fubsy kittens, (A quite consistent habitat, Since "Shah," of course, is French for "cat.")
He lived – as I was saying, when You interrupted, impolitely — Not loosely, like his fellow-men, But, vicê versâ, rather tightly; And drank his share, so runs the story, And other people's, con amore.
A great Astronomer, no doubt, He often found some Constellation Which others could not see without Profuse internal irrigation; And snakes he saw, and crimson mice, Until his colleagues rang for ice.
Omar, who owned a length of throat As dry as the proverbial "drummer," And quite believed that (let me quote) "One swallow does not make a summer," Supplied a model to society Of frank, persistent insobriety.
* * * * *
Ah, fill the cup with nectar sweet, Until, when indisposed for more, Your puzzled, inadhesive feet Elude the smooth revolving floor. What matter doubts, despair or sorrow? To-day is Yesterday To-morrow!
Oblivion in the bottle win, Let finger-bowls with vodka foam, And seek the Open Port within Some dignified Inebriates' Home; Assuming there, with kingly air, A crown of vine-leaves in your hair!
A book of verse (my own, for choice), A slice of cake, some ice-cream soda, A lady with a tuneful voice, Beside me in some dim pagoda! A cellar – if I had the key, — Would be a Paradise to me!
In cosy seat, with lots to eat, And bottles of Lafitte to fracture (And, by-the-bye, the word La-feet Recalls the mode of manufacture) — I contemplate, at easy distance, The troublous problems of existence.
For even if it could be mine To change Creation's partial scheme, To mould it to a fresh design, More nearly that of which I dream, Most probably, my weak endeavour Would make more mess of it than ever!
So let us stock our cellar shelves With balm to lubricate the throttle; For "Heav'n helps those who help themselves," So help yourself, and pass the bottle!
…
What! Would you quarrel with my moral? (Waiter! Leshavanotherborrel!)
Andrew Carnegie
IN Caledonia, stern and wild, Whence scholars, statesmen, bards have sprung, Where ev'ry little barefoot child Correctly lisps his mother-tongue, And lingual solecisms betoken That Scotch is drunk, as well as spoken,
There dwells a man of iron nerve, A millionaire without a peer, Possessing that supreme reserve Which stamps the caste of Vere de Vere, And marks him out to human ken As one of Nature's noblemen.
Like other self-made persons, he Is surely much to be excused, Since they have had no choice, you see, Of the material to be used; But when his noiseless fabric grew, He builded better than he knew.
A democrat, whose views are frank, To him Success alone is vital; He deems the wealthy cabman's "rank" As good as any other title; To him the post of postman betters The trade of other Men of Letters.
The relative who seeks to wed Some nice but indigent patrician, He urges to select instead A coachman of assured position, Since safety-matches, you'll agree, Strike only on the box, says he.
At Skibo Castle, by the sea, A splendid palace he has built, Equipped with all the luxury Of plush, of looking-glass, and gilt; A style which Ruskin much enjoyed, And christened "Early German Lloyd."
With milking-stools and ribbon'd screens The floor is covered, well I know; The walls are thick with tambourines, Hand-painted many years ago; Ah, how much taste our forbears had! And nearly all of it was bad.
Each flow'r-embroidered boudoir suite, Each "cosy corner" set apart, Was modelled in the Regent Street Emporium of suburban art. "O Liberty!" (I quote with shame) "The crimes committed in thy name!"
But tho' his mansion now contains A swimming-bath, a barrel-organ, Electric light, and even drains, As good as those of Mr. Morgan, There was a time when Andrew C. Was not obsessed by l. s. d.
Across the seas he made his pile, In Pittsburg, where, I've understood, You have to exercise some guile To do the very slightest good; But he kept doing good by stealth, And doubtless blushed to find it wealth.
And now his private hobby 'tis To meet a starving people's need By making gifts of libraries To those who never learnt to read; Rich mental banquets he provides For folks with famishing insides.
In Education's hallowed name He pours his opulent libations; His vast deserted Halls of Fame Increase the gaiety of nations. But still the slums are plague-infested, The hospitals remain congested.
…
Carnegie, should your kindly eye This foolish book of verses meet, Please order an immense supply, To make your libraries complete, And register its author's name Within your princely Halls of Fame!