Or 'Mrs. A. and Dog.'

Take 'Hanging up the Mistletoe!'

And (with the public's blessing) go!

Then prosecute your search elsewhere, If fame you wish to win; Take Shakespeare's bust from Leicester Square And Cleopatra's Pin.

Take sculptured Statesmen, hand to breast, Who on our pavements smile, And half the statues that congest The Abbey's crowded aisle.

And, last of all, whate'er befall, Don't fail to take the Albert Hall!

THE MODEL MOTORIST

[Sir Thomas Lipton, when stopped by the Chertsey police for 'scorching,' remarked: 'You have your duty to do, boys. I have always found you to be correct. I'm sorry.']

Ye murderous, motoring scorchers, With manners of Gadarene hogs, Inflicting unspeakable tortures On children and chickens and dogs; Alarming your fellows with hoots and with bellows, And filling their infants with terror, Their cattle stampeding, and never conceding That _you_ could perhaps be in error, Who fall upon Fido and squash little Florrie, And hasten away without saying you're sorry!

[Ill.u.s.tration]

O listen, I beg, _con amore_, Pray pause in your Juggernaut flight, And hark, while I tell you the story Of Lipton, that chivalrous knight!

When charged with exceeding the limit of speeding By constables ambushed in Chertsey, He scorned to tell 'whoppers' or browbeat those 'coppers,'

But, donning (with marvellous court'sy) The smile that he wears at a ball or a 'swarry,'

Remarked: 'You are always correct, boys. I'm sorry!'

With awe and respect did each 'cop' watch A creature so rare, so unique, Who questioned no constable's stop-watch, Who showed neither temper nor pique, But said, 'Do your duty!' in tones rich and fruity, Admitting at once his transgression, Content to take _their_ word, with never a swear-word, To leave an unpleasant impression; Exclaiming--his parents were Irish--'Begorry!

''Tis me that's the scorcher, and faith, bhoys, I'm sorry!'

Then follow his brilliant example, Ye chauffeurs to 'joy-riding' p.r.o.ne, And seek by apologies ample For sins of the past to atone.

Your pace do not quicken when dog or when chicken In 'bonnet' or brake gets entangled, Nor fly in a flutter, and leave in the gutter The man whom your motor has mangled; But after you've pounced like a hawk on your quarry, Just stop for a moment, and say that you're sorry!

THE PARISH PUMP

(A BALLADE)

['The parish pump is the best friend of the teacher of history, and the man who, on the basis of Imperialism, sneers at the parish pump, does not know what he is talking about.'--Canon MASTERMAN.]

The pedagogue his desk may thump And lecture, with a skill profound, On Parliaments called 'Long' or 'Rump,'

On Scone (where Scottish kings were crowned); On b.u.t.ts of Malmsey wine which drowned The Prince who chanced therein to jump; On Richard, Gloucester's Duke, renowned For having a perpetual 'hump';

On Runnymede's immoral clump, Where poor King John was run to ground And signed the Charter (on a stump) Whereon our liberties we found; On Windsor, where, with horse and hound, The eighth King Henry grew so plump, And where the doleful courtiers frowned When George the Third went off his chump!

Such facts I simply cannot lump, Preferring greatly to expound The tale of how Sir Joseph Crump Expended many a well-earned pound (No better Mayor was ever found, Although his lady _is_ a frump!) On giving Mugley-on-the-Mound A presentation Parish Pump.

Then beat the tabor, blow the trump!

Let welkins with your shouts resound!

The cause of Empire cannot slump While n.o.ble deeds like this abound!

Go, children, pa.s.s the story round Of how the head of Crump and Comp: (Whose enemies may Fate confound!) Supplied the Parish with a Pump!

POLICE COURT SENSE

['The evidence that I heard totally failed to satisfy me that he was drunk at all in what, for want of a better definition of the term, I may call the Police Court sense.'--Mr. CHESTER JONES.]

When Uncle Edward comes to dine, He drinks such quant.i.ties of wine, You never know How far he'll go, Or what he'll leave unsaid; He frequently insults his host, And quotes things from the _Winning Post_, Until, with sighs, His friends arise And bear him off to bed.

But as they leave him in his bunk, With what a joy intense They realise he is not drunk-- In the Police Court sense!

[Ill.u.s.tration]

He played bezique with me, one day, To find that, at the close of play, He'd lost each game; The total came To three pounds seventeen.

He never paid a cent of that, And took away my new top-hat, Leaving behind A hideous kind Of gibus, old and green.

But still it filled me with relief, Observing his offence, To think that he was not a thief-- In the Police Court sense!

The details of his private life, The way he treats his luckless wife, Make all aware That he can care For nothing but himself; But what on earth is she to do, Though snubbed and beaten black and blue?

To sue, of course, For a divorce Would be a waste of pelf.

Yet, all the same, my aunt avows, It saves her much expense To feel she has a faithful spouse-- In the Police Court sense!

CLUB CANTOS

CANTO I

THE ATHENaeUM

Dignified, austere, infestive, Stands the stately Athenaeum, With an atmosphere suggestive Of a mausoleum.

Freezing silence reigns within (You can hear the falling pin!) And the punster points with pride To the _frieze_ you get outside!

Here the Bishop, with his nether Limbs in leggings swathed demurely (Hatbrim fastened by a tether To the crown securely), b.u.t.tonholes some friendly Duke, To discuss the Pentateuch, Or abstracts (with absent mind) All th' umbrellas he can find.

[Ill.u.s.tration]

Here each great and famous Briton Snored and slumbered almost daily: Thackeray and Bulwer Lytton, d.i.c.kens and Disraeli.

Trollope through this doorway stept, In that chair Macaulay slept, While, with cotton in his ears, Herbert Spencer snubbed his peers.

Here our scientific pedants Write their Monographs on Rabbits Or their studies of the Red-ant's Socialistic habits.

Here the statesman threshes out Themes of Philosophic Doubt, While the Laureate scours each shelf For a rhyme to 'Guelph' and 'self.'

Poet, painter, politician, Throng this Hall of the Immortals; Sophist, sage, and statistician Cross these pompous portals.

Here the pundits of the State Herd with the Episcopate; Scientist and learned lord Mix with Mr. H-mphr-y W-rd.

If the roof fell in, ah me!

Where would Mother England be?

CANTO II

WHITE'S

Observe the elite, staring into the street, Through that famous elliptical cas.e.m.e.nt; How coldly they eye all the friends who pa.s.s by, With a look of self-conscious effacement!