They sit down and they stay awhile, Kisses and comfort none shall lack; At morn they steal forth with a smile And a long look back.

_Owen Seaman_

One of the most delightful of English versifiers, Owen Seaman, was born in 1861. After receiving a cla.s.sical education, he became Professor of Literature and began to write for Punch in 1894. In 1906 he was made editor of that internationally famous weekly, remaining in that capacity ever since. He was knighted in 1914. As a writer of light verse and as a parodist, his agile work has delighted a generation of admirers. Some of his most adroit lines may be found in his _In Cap and Bells_ (1902) and _The Battle of the Bays_ (1892).

TO AN OLD FOGEY

(_Who Contends that Christmas is Played Out_)

O frankly bald and obviously stout!

And so you find that Christmas as a fete Dispa.s.sionately viewed, is getting out Of date.

The studied festal air is overdone; The humour of it grows a little thin; You fail, in fact, to gather where the fun Comes in.

Visions of very heavy meals arise That tend to make your organism shiver; Roast beef that irks, and pies that agonise The liver;

Those pies at which you annually wince, Hearing the tale how happy months will follow Proportioned to the total ma.s.s of mince You swallow.

Visions of youth whose reverence is scant, Who with the brutal _verve_ of boyhood's prime Insist on being taken to the pant- -omime.

Of infants, sitting up extremely late, Who run you on toboggans down the stair; Or make you fetch a rug and simulate A bear.

This takes your faultless trousers at the knees, The other hurts them rather more behind; And both effect a fracture in your ease Of mind.

My good dyspeptic, this will never do; Your weary withers must be sadly wrung!

Yet once I well believe that even you Were young.

Time was when you devoured, like other boys, Plum-pudding sequent on a turkey-hen; With cracker-mottos hinting of the joys Of men.

Time was when 'mid the maidens you would pull The fiery raisin with profound delight; When sprigs of mistletoe seemed beautiful And right.

Old Christmas changes not! Long, long ago He won the treasure of eternal youth; _Yours_ is the dotage--if you want to know The truth.

Come, now, I'll cure your case, and ask no fee:-- Make others' happiness this once your own; All else may pa.s.s: that joy can never be Outgrown!

THOMAS OF THE LIGHT HEART

Facing the guns, he jokes as well As any Judge upon the Bench; Between the crash of sh.e.l.l and sh.e.l.l His laughter rings along the trench; He seems immensely tickled by a Projectile while he calls a "Black Maria."

He whistles down the day-long road, And, when the chilly shadows fall And heavier hangs the weary load, Is he down-hearted? Not at all.

'Tis then he takes a light and airy View of the tedious route to Tipperary.[4]

His songs are not exactly hymns; He never learned them in the choir; And yet they brace his dragging limbs Although they miss the sacred fire; Although his choice and cherished gems Do not include "The Watch upon the Thames."

He takes to fighting as a game; He does no talking, through his hat, Of holy missions; all the same He has his faith--be sure of that; He'll not disgrace his sporting breed, Nor play what isn't cricket. There's his creed.

FOOTNOTES:

[4] "_It's a long way to Tipperary_," the most popular song of the Allied armies during the World's War.

_Henry Newbolt_

Henry Newbolt was born at Bilston in 1862. His early work was frankly imitative of Tennyson; he even attempted to add to the Arthurian legends with a drama in blank verse ent.i.tled _Mordred_ (1895). It was not until he wrote his sea-ballads that he struck his own note. With the publication of _Admirals All_ (1897) his fame was widespread. The popularity of his lines was due not so much to the subject-matter of Newbolt's verse as to the breeziness of his music, the solid beat of rhythm, the vigorous swing of his stanzas.

In 1898 Newbolt published _The Island Race_, which contains about thirty more of his buoyant songs of the sea. Besides being a poet, Newbolt has written many essays and his critical volume, _A New Study of English Poetry_ (1917), is a collection of articles that are both a.n.a.lytical and alive.

DRAKE'S DRUM

Drake he's in his hammock an' a thousand mile away, (Capten, art tha sleepin' there below?) Slung atween the round shot in Nombre Dios Bay, An' dreamin' arl the time o' Plymouth Hoe.

Yarnder lumes the island, yarnder lie the ships, Wi' sailor lads a-dancin' heel-an'-toe, An' the sh.o.r.e-lights flashin', an' the night-tide dashin'

He sees et arl so plainly as he saw et long ago.

Drake he was a Devon man, an' ruled the Devon seas, (Capten, art tha sleepin' there below?), Rovin' tho' his death fell, he went wi' heart at ease, An' dreamin' arl the time o' Plymouth Hoe, "Take my drum to England, hang et by the sh.o.r.e, Strike et when your powder's runnin' low; If the Dons sight Devon, I'll quit the port o' Heaven, An' drum them up the Channel as we drummed them long ago."

Drake he's in his hammock till the great Armadas come, (Capten, art tha sleepin' there below?), Slung atween the round shot, listenin' for the drum, An' dreamin' arl the time o' Plymouth Hoe.

Call him on the deep sea, call him up the Sound, Call him when ye sail to meet the foe; Where the old trade's plyin' an' the old flag flyin', They shall find him, ware an' wakin', as they found him long ago.

_Arthur Symons_

Born in 1865, Arthur Symons' first few publications revealed an intellectual rather than an emotional pa.s.sion. Those volumes were full of the artifice of the period, but Symons's technical skill and frequent a.n.a.lysis often saved the poems from complete decadence. His later books are less imitative; the influence of Verlaine and Baudelaire is not so apparent; the sophistication is less cynical, the sensuousness more restrained. His various collections of essays and stories reflect the same peculiar blend of rich intellectuality and perfumed romanticism that one finds in his most characteristic poems.

Of his many volumes in prose, _Spiritual Adventures_ (1905), while obviously influenced by Walter Pater, is by far the most original; a truly unique volume of psychological short stories. The best of his poetry up to 1902 was collected in two volumes, _Poems_, published by John Lane Co. _The Fool of the World_ appeared in 1907.

IN THE WOOD OF FINVARA

I have grown tired of sorrow and human tears; Life is a dream in the night, a fear among fears, A naked runner lost in a storm of spears.

I have grown tired of rapture and love's desire; Love is a flaming heart, and its flames aspire Till they cloud the soul in the smoke of a windy fire.

I would wash the dust of the world in a soft green flood; Here between sea and sea, in the fairy wood, I have found a delicate, wave-green solitude.

Here, in the fairy wood, between sea and sea, I have heard the song of a fairy bird in a tree, And the peace that is not in the world has flown to me.