With guilty, conscience-stricken tears, I offer up these rhymes of mine To children of maturer years (From Seventeen to Ninety-nine). A special solace may they be In days of second infancy.
The frenzied mother who observes This volume in her offspring's hand, And trembles for the darling's nerves, Must please to clearly understand, If baby suffers by and by The Publisher's at fault, not I!
But should the little brat survive, And fatten on this style of Rhyme, To raise a Heartless Home and thrive Through a successful life of crime, The Publisher would have you see That I am to be thanked, not he!
Fond parent, you whose children are Of tender age (from two to eight), Pray keep this little volume far From reach of such, and relegate My verses to an upper shelf; Where you may study them yourself.
FOREWORD
The Press may pass my Verses by With sentiments of indignation, And say, like Greeks of old, that I Corrupt the Youthful Generation; I am unmoved by taunts like these — (And so, I think, was Socrates).
Howe'er the Critics may revile, I pick no journalistic quarrels, Quite realising that my Style Makes up for any lack of Morals; For which I feel no shred of shame — (And Byron would have felt the same).
I don't intend a Child to read These lines, which are not for the Young; For, if I did, I should indeed Feel fully worthy to be hung. (Is 'hanged' the perfect tense of 'hang'? Correct me, Mr. Andrew Lang!)
O Young of Heart, tho' in your prime, By you these verses may be seen! Accept the Moral with the Rhyme, And try to gather what I mean. But, if you can't, it won't hurt me! (And Browning would, I know, agree.)
Be reassured, I have not got The style of Stephen Phillips' heroes, Nor Henry Jones's pow'r of Plot, Nor wit like Arthur Wing Pinero's! (If so, I should not waste my time In writing you this sort of rhyme.)
I strive to paint things as they Are, Of Realism the true Apostle; All flow'ry metaphors I bar, Nor call the homely thrush a 'throstle.' Such synonyms would make me smile. (And so they would have made Carlyle.)
My Style may be, at times, I own, A trifle cryptic or abstruse; In this I do not stand alone, And need but mention, in excuse, A thousand world-familiar names, From Meredith to Henry James.
From these my fruitless fancy roams To Aesop's or La Fontaine's Fable, From Doyle's or Hemans' 'Stately Ho(l)mes,' To t'other of The Breakfast Table; Like Galahad, I wish (in vain) 'My wit were as the wit of Twain!
Had I but Whitman's rugged skill, (And managed to escape the Censor), The Accuracy of a Mill, The Reason of a Herbert Spencer, The literary talents even Of Sidney Lee or Leslie Stephen,
The pow'r of Patmore's placid pen, Or Watson's gift of execration, The sugar of Le Gallienne, Or Algernon's alliteration, One post there is I'd not be lost in, – Tho' I might find it most ex-Austin'!
Some day, if I but study hard, The public, vanquished by my pen, 'll Acclaim me as a Minor Bard, Like Norman Gale or Mrs. Meynell; And listen to my lyre a-rippling Imperial banjo-spasms like Kipling.
Were I, like him, a syndicate, Which publishers would put their trust in; A Walter Pater up-to-date, Or flippant scholar like Augustine; With pen as light as lark or squirrel, I'd love to kipple, pate and birrell.
So don't ignore me. If you should, 'Twill touch me to the very heart oh! To be as much misunderstood As once was Andrea del Sarto; Unrecognised, to toil away, Like Millet, – (not, of course, Millais).
And, pray, for Morals do not look In this unique agglomeration, – This unpretentious little book Of Infelicitous Quotation. I deem you foolish if you do, (And Mr. Arnold thinks so, too).
PART I THE BABY'S BAEDEKER
An International Guide-Book for the young of all ages;
peculiarly adapted to the wants of first and second Childhood
I ABROAD
Abroad is where we tourists spend, In divers unalluring ways, The brief occasional week-end, Or annual Easter holidays; And earn the (not ill-founded) charge Of being lunatics at large.
Abroad, we lose our self-respect; Wear whiskers; let our teeth protrude; Consider any garb correct, And no display of temper rude; Descending, when we cross the foam, To depths we dare not plumb at home.
(Small wonder that the natives gaze, With hostile eyes, at foreign freaks, Who patronise their Passion-plays, In lemon-coloured chessboard breeks; An op'ra-glass about each neck, And on each head a cap of check.)
Abroad, where needy younger sons, When void the parent's treasure-chest, Take refuge from insistent duns, At urgent relatives' request; To live upon their slender wits, Or sums some maiden-aunt remits.
Abroad, whence (with a wisdom rare) Regardless of nostalgic pains, The weary New York millionaire Retires with his oil-gotten gains, And learns how deep a pleasure 'tis To found our Public Libraries.
For ours is the primeval clan, From which all lesser lights descend; Is Crockett not our countryman? And call we not Corelli friend? Our brotherhood has bred the brain Whose offspring bear the brand of Caine.
Tho' nowadays we seldom hear Miss Proctor, who mislaid a chord, Or Tennyson, the poet peer, Who came into the garden, Mord; Tho' Burns be dead, and Keats unread, We have a prophet still in Stead.
And so we stare, with nose in air; And speak in condescending tone, Of foreigners whose climes compare So favourably with our own; And aliens we cannot applaud Who call themselves At Home Abroad!
II UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
This is the Country of the Free, The Cocktail and the Ten Cent Chew; Where you're as good a man as me, And I'm a better man than you! (O Liberty, how free we make! Freedom, what liberties we take!)
'Tis here the startled tourist meets, 'Mid clanging of a thousand bells, The railways running through the streets, Skyscraping flats and vast hotels, Where rest, on the resplendent floors, The necessary cuspidors.
And here you may encounter too The pauper immigrants in shoals, The Swede, the German, and the Jew, The Irishman, who rules the polls And is employed to keep the peace, A venal and corrupt police.
They are so busy here, you know, They have no time at all for play; Each morning to their work they go And stay there all the livelong day; Their dreams of happiness depend On making more than they can spend.
The ladies of this land are all Developed to a pitch sublime, Some inches over six foot tall, With perfect figures all the time. (For further notice of their looks See Mr. Dana Gibson's books.)
And, if they happen to possess Sufficient balance at the bank, They have the chance of saying 'Yes!' To needy foreigners of rank; The future dukes of all the earth Are half American by birth.
MORAL
A 'dot' combining cash with charms Is worth a thousand coats-of-arms.
III GREAT BRITAIN
The British are a chilly race. The Englishman is thin and tall; He screws an eyeglass in his face, And talks with a reluctant drawl. 'Good Gwacious! This is doosid slow! By Jove! Haw demmy! Don't-cher-know!'
The Englishwoman ev'rywhere A meed of admiration wins; She has a crown of silken hair, And quite the loveliest of skins. (Go forth and seek an English maid, Your trouble will be well repaid.)
Where Britain's banner is unfurled There's room for nothing else beside, She owns one-quarter of the world, And still she is not satisfied. The Briton thinks himself, by birth, To be the lord of all the earth.
Some call his manners wanting, or His sense of humour poor, and yet Whatever he is striving for He as a rule contrives to get; His methods may be much to blame, But he arrives there just the same.
MORAL
If you can get your wish, you bet it Doesn't much matter how you get it!
IV SCOTLAND
In Scotland all the people wear Red hair and freckles, and one sees The men in women's dresses there, With stout, décolleté, low-necked knees. ('Eblins ye dinna ken, I doot, We're unco guid, so hoot, mon, hoot!')
They love 'ta whuskey' and 'ta Kirk'; I don't know which they like the most. They aren't the least afraid of work; No sense of humour can they boast; And you require an axe to coax The canny Scot to see your jokes.
They play an instrument they call The bagpipes; and the sound of these Is reminiscent of the squall Of infant pigs attacked by bees; Music that might drive cats away Or make reluctant chickens lay.
MORAL
Wear kilts, and, tho' men look askance, Go out and give your knees a chance.
V IRELAND
The Irishman is never quite Contented with his little lot; He's ever thirsting for a fight, A grievance he has always got; And all his energy is bent On trying not to pay his rent.
He lives upon a frugal fare (The few potatoes that he digs), And hospitably loves to share His bedroom with his wife and pigs; But cannot settle even here, And gets evicted once a year.
In order to amuse himself, At any time when things are slack, He takes his gun down from the shelf And shoots a landlord in the back; If he is lucky in the chase, He may contrive to bag a brace.
MORAL
Procure a grievance and a gun And you can have no end of fun.
VI WALES
The natives of the land of Wales Are not a very truthful lot, And the imagination fails To paint the language they have got; Bettws-y-coed-llan-dud-nod- Dolgelly-rhiwlas-cwn-wm-dod!
MORAL
If you must talk, then do it, pray, In an intelligible way.
VII CHINA
The Chinaman from early youth Is by his wise preceptors taught To have no dealings with the Truth, In fact, romancing is his 'forte.' In juggling words he takes the prize, By the sheer beauty of his lies.
For laundrywork he has a knack; He takes in shirts and makes them blue; When he omits to send them back He takes his customers in too. He must be ranked in the 'élite' Of those whose hobby is deceit.
For ladies 'tis the fashion here To pinch their feet and make them small, Which, to the civilised idea, Is not a proper thing at all. Our modern Western woman's taste In pinching leans towards the waist.
The Chinese Empire is the field Where foreign missionaries go; A poor result their labours yield, And they have little fruit to show; For, if you would convert Wun Lung, You have to catch him very young.
The Chinaman has got a creed And a religion of his own, And would be much obliged indeed If you could leave his soul alone; And he prefers, which may seem odd, His own to other people's god.
Yet still the missionary tries To point him out his wickedness, Until the badgered natives rise, — And there's one missionary less! Then foreign Pow'rs step in, you see, And ask for an indemnity.
MORAL
Adhere to facts, avoid romance, And you a clergyman may be; To lie is wrong, except perchance In matters of Diplomacy. And, when you start out to convert, Make certain that you don't get hurt!
VIII FRANCE
The natives here remark 'Mon Dieu!' 'Que voulez-vous?' 'Comment ça va?' 'Sapristi! Par exemple! Un peu!' 'Tiens donc! Mais qu'est-ce que c'est que ça?' They shave one portion of their dogs, And live exclusively on frogs.
They get excited very quick, And crowds will gather before long If you should stand and wave your stick And shout, 'À bas le Presidong!' Still more amusing would it be To say, 'Conspuez la Patrie!'
The French are so polite, you know, They take their hats off very well, And, should they tread upon your toe, Remark, 'Pardon, Mademoiselle!' And you would gladly bear the pain To see them make that bow again.
Their ladies too have got a way Which even curates can't resist; 'Twould make an Alderman feel gay Or soothe a yellow journalist; And then the things they say are so Extremely – well, in fact, – you know!
MORAL
The closest scrutiny can find No morals here of any kind.
IX GERMANY
The German is a stolid soul, And finds best suited to his taste A pipe with an enormous bowl, A fraulein with an ample waist; He loves his beer, his Kaiser, and (Donner und blitz!) his Fatherland!
He's perfectly contented if He listens in the Op'ra-house To Wagner's well-concealed 'motif,' Or waltzes of the nimble Strauss; And all discordant bands he sends Abroad, to soothe his foreign friends.
When he is glad at anything He cheers like a dyspeptic goat, 'Hoch! hoch!' You'd think him suffering From some affection of the throat. A disagreeable noise, 'tis true, But pleases him and don't hurt you!
MORAL
A glass of lager underneath the bough, A long 'churchwarden' and an ample 'frau' Beside me sitting in a Biergarten, Ach! Biergarten were paradise enow!
