More Misrepresentative Men.

by Harry Graham.

Preface_

Voracious Author, gorged with gold, Your grasping greed shall not avail!

In vain you venture to unfold Your false prehensile tale!

I view in scorn (unmixed with awe) The width of your capacious maw.

On me the onus has to fall Of your malevolent effusions; 'Tis I who bear the brunt of all Your libellous allusions; To bolster up your turgid verse, I jeopardise my very purse!

You do not hesitate to fleece The Publisher you scorn to thank, And when you manage to decrease His balance at the bank, Your face is lighted up with greed, And you are lantern-jawed indeed!

Yet will I still heap coals of fire, Until your coiffure is imbedded, And you at last, perchance, shall tire Of growing so hot-headed, And realise that being funny Is not a mere affair of money.

And so, in honour of your pow'rs, A fragrant bouquet will I pick, Of rare exotics, blossoms, flow'rs Of speech and rhetoric; I'll add a thistle, if I may, And, round the whole, a wreath of bay.

The blossoms for your b.u.t.ton-hole, To mark your affluent condition, Exotics to inspire your soul To further composition.

Come, set the bays upon your brow!

Well, eat the thistle, anyhow!

_Robert Burns_

The jingling rhymes of Dr. Watts Excite the reader's just impatience, He wearies of Sir Walter Scott's Melodious verbal collocations, And with advancing years he learns To love the simpler style of Burns.

Too much the careworn critic knows Of that obscure robustious diction, Which like a form of fungus grows Amid the Kailyard school of fiction; In Crockett's cryptic caves one sighs For Burns's clear and s.p.a.cious skies.

Tho' no aspersions need be cast On Barrie's wealth of wit fantastic, Creator of that unsurpa.s.s'd If most minute ecclesiastic; Yet even here the eye discerns No master-hand like that of Burns.

The works of Campbell and the rest Exhale a sanctimonious odour, Their vintage is but Schnapps, at best, Their Scotch is simply Scotch-and-sodour!

They cannot hope, like Burns, to win That "touch which makes the whole world kin."

Tho' some may sing of Neil Munro, And virtues in Maclaren see, Or want but little here below, And want that little Lang, maybe; Each renegade at length returns, To praise the peerless pow'rs of Burns.

His verse, as all the world declares, And Tennyson himself confesses, The radiance of the dewdrop shares, The berry's perfect shape possesses; And even William Wordsworth praises The magic of his faultless phrases.

But he, whose books bedeck our shelves, Whose lofty genius we adore so, Was only human, like ourselves,-- Perhaps, indeed, a trifle more so!

And joined a thirst that nought could quench To morals which were frankly French.

And ev'ry night he made his way, With boon companions, bent on frolic, To inns of ill-repute, where lay Refreshments--chiefly alcoholic!

(But I decline to raise your gorges, Describing these nocturnal orgies.)

Of love-affairs he knew no end, So long and ardently he flirted, And e'en the least suspicious friend Would feel a trifle disconcerted, When Burns was sitting with his "_sposa_,"

"As thick as thieves on Vallombrosa!"

A c.o.c.kney Chiel who found him thus, And showed some conjugal alarm, When Burns implored him not to fuss, Enquiring calmly, "Where's the harm?"

Replied at once, with perfect taste, "The _h_arm is round my consort's waist!"

"A poor thing but my own," said he, His fair but fickle bride denoting, And she, with scathing repartee, a.s.sented, wilfully misquoting, (Tho' carefully brought up, like Jonah), "A poorer thing--and yet my owner!"

The most bucolic hearts were burnt By Burns' amatory glances; The most suburban spinsters learnt To welcome his abrupt advances; When Burns was on his knee, 'twas said, They wished that _they_ were there instead!

They loved him from the first, in spite Of angry parents' interference; They deemed his courtship so polite, So captivating his appearance; So great his charm, so apt his wit, In local parlance, Burns was IT!

The rustic maids from far and wide, Encouraged his unwise flirtations; For love of Burns they moped and sighed, And, while their nearest male relations Were up in arms, the sad thing is That they themselves were up in his!

His crest a mug, with open lid, The kind in vogue with ancient Druids,-- Inscribed "Amari Aliquid,"

(Which means "I'm very fond of fluids!"), On either side, as meet supporters, The village blacksmith's lovely daughters.

"Men were deceivers ever!" True, As Shakespeare says (Hey Nonny! Nonny!), But one should always keep in view That "_tout comprendr' c'est tout pardonny_"; In judging poets it suffices To scan their verses, not their vices.

The poets of the present time Attempt their feeble imitations; Are economical of rhyme, And lavish with reiterations; The while a patient public swallows A "Border Ballad" much as follows:--

_Jamie lad, I lo'e ye weel, Jamie lad, I lo'e nae ither, Jamie lad, I lo'e ye weel, Like a mither._

_Jamie's ganging doon the burn, Jamie's ganging doon, whateffer, Jamie's ganging doon the burn, To Strathpeffer!_

_Jamie's comin' hame to dee, Jamie's comin' hame, I'm thinkin', Jamie's comin' hame to dee, Dee o' drinkin'!_

_Hech! Jamie! Losh! Jamie!

Dinna greet sae sair!

Gin ye canna, winna, shanna See yer la.s.sie mair!

Wha' hoo!

Wha' hae!

Strathpeffer!_

I give you now, as antidote, Some lines which I myself indited.

Carnegie, when he read them, wrote To say that he was quite delighted; Their pathos cut him to the quick, Their humour almost made him sick.

_The queys are moopin' i' the mirk, An' gin ye thole ahin' the kirk, I'll gar ye tocher hame fra' work, Sae straught an' primsie; In vain the lavrock leaves the snaw, The sonsie cowslips blithely blaw, The elbucks wheep adoon the shaw, Or warl a whimsy.

The cootie muirc.o.c.ks crousely craw, The maukins tak' their fud fu' braw, I gie their wames a random paw, For a' they're skilpy; For wha' sae glaikit, gleg an' din, To but the ben, or loup the linn, Or scraw aboon the tirlin'-pin Sae frae an' gilpie?_

_Och, snood the sporran roun' ma lap, The cairngorm clap in ilka cap, Och, hand me o'er Ma lang claymore, Twa, bannocks an' a bap, Wha hoo!

Twa bannocks an' a bap!_ . . . . . .

O fellow Scotsman, near and far, Renowned for health and good digestion, For all that makes you what you are,-- (But are you really? That's the question)-- Be grateful, while the world endures, That Burns was countryman of yours.

And hand-in-hand, in alien land, Foregather with your fellow cronies, To masticate the haggis (cann'd) At Scottish Conversaziones, Where, flushed with wine and Auld Lang Syne, You worship at your country's shrine!