Who, foremost of his peers, exalts The labours of the devious waltz By sitting out the squares?

Does Prudence, gentle Matron, force On Folly in her 'teens The value of a stalking-horse When hunting Rank and Means?

And is the Summer Widow's mind Aggrieved and horrified to find That, as her male acquaintance grows, Her female circle pa.s.s her by With Innuendo's outraged eye, And Virtue's injured nose?

Lo, in the Vale of Tears beneath A grilling troop is seen Whom Failure gnaws with rankling teeth, While Envy turns them green.

This racks the head, that scars the pelt, These bore beneath the ample belt, Those in the deeper vitals burn: Lo, Want of Leave, to fill the cup, Hath drunken all our juices up, And topped the whole concern.

To each his billet; some succeed, And some are left to groan; The latter serve their country's need, The former serve their own.

Then let the maiden try her wing, The youth enjoy his roomy fling, The Single Matron dry her eyes!

As Fate is blind, and Life is short, If Ignorance can give them sport, 'Twere folly to be wise.

A SOMBRE RETROSPECT

Long, long ago, in that heroic time When I, a coy and modest youth, was shot Out on this dust-heap of careers and crime To try and learn what's what,

I had a servitor, a swarthy knave, Who showed an almost irreligious taste For wearing nothing but a turban, save A rag about the waist.

This apparition gave me such a start, That I endowed him with a cast-off pair Of inexpressibles, and said, 'Depart, And be no longer bare.'

He took the offering with broken thanks; But day succeeded day, and still revealed Those sombre and attenuated shanks Intensely unconcealed;

Until at last the climax came when I Resolved to bring this matter to an end, And when I saw him pa.s.sing, shouted, 'Hi!

Where are your trousers, friend?'

Halting, he gave a deferential bow; Then, to my horror, beamingly replied, 'Master not see? I wearing trousers _now_!'

I would have said he lied,

But could not. As I shaped the glowing phrase, I looked upon his turban--looked again-- Mine own familiar pattern met my gaze, And all the truth was plain!

Th' unhappy creature, Eastern to the core, Holding my gift in superst.i.tious dread, Had made a turban out of it, and wore His trousers--_on his head_!

TO MANDALAY--GREETING

(BY WALTYARD WHIPMING)

I

A song of Mandalay!

Allons, Camerados, Desperadoes, Amontillados!

Hear my Recitative, my Romanza, my Spring Onion!

II

You three-striped sergeants, you corporals, non-commissioned officers, and men with one or more good-conduct badges, You indifferent and bad characters, am I not also one with you?

And will you not then hear my song?

This for prelude.

III

You, O Mandalay, I sing!

For I see the paG.o.da, the Moulmein and essentially wotto paG.o.da, And the paG.o.da is above the trees, But the trees are below the paG.o.da.

IV

I see the flying-fish sitting on the branches, I hear them sing, and they fly and mate and build their nests in the branches; I see a dun-coloured aboriginal she-female, mongolianee, pet.i.te, squat-faced, And she has a cast in her sinister optic and a snub nose but her heart is true; And I gaze into her heart (which is true), and I find that she is musing (as indeed I often muse) on ME, Me p.r.o.nonce, Me Imperturbe, Me Inconscionabilamente.

V

I see [_a page or so unavoidably omitted for lack of s.p.a.ce,--refer to guide-book_] and ... the wind, and the palm-trees idly swaying to and fro in the wind (now to, now fro), and I hear the bells of a temple, and I know that they are singing, and what it is that they would say.

VI

What is it that they would say do you ask Me?

VII

How shall I tell you, how shall I make you understand?

For I know that you do not love Me, you do not comprehend Me, you say that this sort of thing does you harm; But I will even now do my darndest (as indeed I always do more or less), and if you do not like it, Waal, Soldados?

VIII

Behold, I will write it as a song and put it in italics, so that even _you_ will know that it _is_ a song; So listen, listen, Camerados! for I am about to spout and my song shall be masculine and virile. _A bas_ your metre, _a la lanterne_ your rhyme, _conspuez_ your punctuation, I say pooh-pooh!

SONG OF BELLS

_Allons! Allons! Tra-la-la! Hear my Bellata!

Why do you not return to Mandalay O soldier?

Do you not remember the boats, and the paddles as they chunked outside the boats?

Do you not remember the elephants, the mighty elephants, strong, mysterious, impalpable (no, not impalpable), pachydermatous, and the extraordinary accuracy with which they succeeded in balancing trees or parts of trees, branches, logs, beams, planks, ...

etc., ... with their trunks (the beams carefully supported at their centre of gravity, the logs carefully supported at their centre of gravity, the elephants without a smile at_ their _centre of gravity) From Rangoon to Mandalay?_