No eulogist of War is he, "Retrenchment!" is his _dernier cri_.

But tho', to his convictions true, With strength like concentrated Eno, He did his very utmost to Emanc.i.p.ate the Filipino, A fickle public chose Another, Who called the Coloured c.o.o.n his Brother.

_Euclid_

When Egypt was a first-cla.s.s Pow'r-- When Ptolemy was King, that is, Whose benefices used to show'r On all the local charities, And by his liberal subscriptions Was always spoiling the Egyptians--

The Alexandrine School enjoyed A proud and primary position For training scholars not devoid Of geometric erudition; Where arithmetical fanatics Could even _live_ in (mathem)-attics.

The best informed Historians name This Inst.i.tution the possessor Of one who occupied with fame The post of princ.i.p.al Professor, Who had a more expansive brain Than any man--before Hall Caine.

No complex sums of huge amounts Perplexed his algebraic knowledge; With ease he balanced the accounts Of his (at times insolvent) College; He was, without the least romance, A very Blondin of Finance.

In pencil, on his shirt-cuff, he, Without a moment's hesitation, Elucidated easily The most elab'rate calculation (His washing got, I needn't mention, The local laundry's best attention).

Behind a manner mild as mouse, Blue-spectacled and inoffensive, He hid a judgment and a _nous_ As overwhelming as extensive, And cloaked a soul immune from wrong Beneath an ample ong-bong-pong.

To rows of conscientious youths, Whom 'twas his duty to take care of, He loved to prove the truth of truths Which they already were aware of; They learnt to look politely bored, Where modern students would have snored.

To show that Two and Two make Four, That All is greater than a Portion, Requires no dialectic lore, Nor any cerebral contortion; The public's faith in facts was steady, Before the days of Mrs. Eddy.

But what was hard to overlook (From which Society still suffers) Was all the trouble Euclid took To teach the game of Bridge to duffers.

Insisting, when he got a quorum, On "_Pons_" (he called it) "_Asinorum_."

The guileless methods of his game Provoked his partner's strongest strictures; He hardly knew the cards by name, But realised that some had pictures; Exhausting ev'rybody's patience By his perpetual revocations.

For weary hours, in deep concern, O'er dummy's hand he loved to linger, Denoting ev'ry card in turn, With timid indecisive finger; And stopped to say, at each delay, "I really don't know _what_ to play!"

He sought, at any cost, to win His ev'ry suit in turn unguarding; He trumped his partner's "best card in,"

His own egregiously discarding; Remarking sadly, when in doubt, "I quite forgot the King was out!"

Alert opponents always knew, By what the look upon his face was, When safety lay in leading through, And where, of course, the fatal ace was; a.s.suring the complete successes Of bold but hazardous "finesses."

But nowadays we find no trace, From distant a.s.souan to Cairo, To mark the place where dwelt a race Mistaught by so absurd a tyro; And nothing but occult inscriptions Recall the sports of past Egyptians.

Yes, "_autre temps_" and "_autre moeurs_,"

"_Ou sont_ indeed _les neiges d'antan_?"

The modern native much prefers Debauching in some _cafe chantant_, Nor ever shows the least ambition To solve a single Proposition.

O Euclid, luckiest of men!

You knew no English interloper; For Allah's Garden was not then The pleasure-ground of Alleh Sloper, Nor (broth-like) had your country's looks Been spoilt by an excess of "Cooks."

The Nile to your untutored ears Discoursed in dull but tender tones; Not yours the modern Dahabeahs, Supplied with strident gramophones, Imploring, in a loud refrain, Bill Bailey to come home again.

Your cars, the older-fashioned sort, And drawn, perhaps, by alligators, Were not the modern Juggernaut- Child-dog-and-s.p.a.ce-obliterators, Those "stormy petrols" of the land Which deal decease on either hand.

No European tourist wags Defiled the desert's dusky face With orange peel and paper bags, Those emblems of a cultured race; Or cut the n.o.ble name of Jones, On tombs which held a monarch's bones.

O Euclid! Could you see to-day The sunny clime you once frequented, And note the way we moderns play The game you thoughtfully invented, The knowledge of your guilt would force yer To feelings of internal nausea!

_J. M. Barrie_

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 s.p.a.ce?

(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, a.s.sured 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 pa.s.sion.

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.