When the maiden, matineeing, from some playhouse portals straying (Where her favourite is playing), grows as crusty as a crab, While her fiance ungainly--so unlike dear Harry Ainley!-- In the snow is seeking vainly (ah! how vainly!) for a cab; When he cusses and she fusses, as they note how full each 'bus is Of that crowd of oafs and hussies it refuses to disgorge, Till they hail some pa.s.sing taxi, with expressions wild and waxy (Like the language Leo Maxse always uses of Lloyd George)!

With her windswept skirt she battles, to his hat he tries to cling, While the poet sweetly prattles of the pleasures of the Spring!

Though I hate to be pedantic, and it may seem unromantic, I am driven nearly frantic when I hear the praises sung Of those ruthless vernal breezes which engender coughs and sneezes And disseminate diseases in the ranks of old and young.

So, although it sounds like treason, when I celebrate this season, I will mix my rhymes with reason, and substantiate, I trust, That there's nought so uninviting, so depressing, and so blighting, As the time of which I'm writing with such genuine disgust.

As I hover round the fender, and for fuel loudly ring, I decline to see the splendour or the witchery of Spring!

SPRING-CLEANING

['The only way to get workmen out of the house is to move in oneself.'--The _Bromide's Handbook_.]

Let me sing in mournful numbers Of the sorrows of the Spring, When the house is full of plumbers And the builder has his fling!

Ladders lean on ev'ry landing, Pails repose on ev'ry stair, Painters, who on planks are standing, Block the road to ev'rywhere, And with pigments evil-smelling Drive us from our dismal dwelling.

Stairs are carpetless to step on, Bannisters are far from dry, While (like Damocles's weapon) Plaster threatens from on high.

Any room we chance to enter Our depression but completes: Chairs and tables in the centre Hide beneath encircling sheets, And the painters (horrid vandals!) Have deprived the doors of handles.

Workmen through our windows peering Spread their pitfalls in our path; Daily we are found adhering To some freshly-painted bath; Daily have our cooks contended That, however great our grief, Till the kitchen-range be mended, We must live on frigid beef; And at last we grasp the meaning Of that fatal phrase, 'Spring-Cleaning'!

[Ill.u.s.tration]

'ROYAL ASCOT'

Ho! find me my faithful field-gla.s.ses (The kind with collapsible joints); Ho! bring me my bundle of pa.s.ses, My pencils (the ones that have points); Ho! give me my 'topper,'

The head-dress that's proper For meetings where Royalties muster; Put scent on my 'hanky'

(That's quite enough, thankye!) And polish my boots with a duster; That so I may venture, with grace and composure, To mix with my peers in the Royal Enclosure!

At Ascot, where beautiful dresses Enrapture the masculine gaze, How oft I've indulged in excesses Of hock-cup and cold mayonnaise!

How oft in the Paddock (Though squashed like a haddock) Each thoroughbred's heels I've eluded!

What fortunes I've flung to The Ring, which they've clung to, Those touts who my pockets denuded!

What n.i.g.g.ardly odds did those bookmakers lay me!

(How often have ladies forgotten to pay me!)

[Ill.u.s.tration]

At Ascot, that popular function, Society leans on the rails, And sport is enjoyed in conjunction With lobsters and underdone quails!

While Rank and while Fashion Regard with compa.s.sion The antics of clown or of n.i.g.g.e.r, But one imperfection Appears, on inspection, This party to mar or disfigure: 'Twould be the most perfect of meetings and courses, If only----if only there weren't any horses!

'ROSES'

A MEMORY OF 'ALEXANDRA DAY'

(_With apologies to Wordsworth_)

I wandered shyly as a ghost That prowls in haunted keeps and tow'rs, When all at once I saw a host, A crowd of ladies selling flow'rs; Along the Mall, beside the Pond, From Lady Cr-we to Lady M-nd!

Continuous as the stars that shine, Like poppies in a field of wheat, They stretched in never-ending line Along the kerb of ev'ry street; Ten thousand saw I, file by file, Selling their 'blooms' with sprightly smile.

The world about them smiled, for they Bedecked the dingy thoroughfares; A fellow could not fail to pay His penny for such wares as theirs.

I bought and bought--but little guessed What wealth those simple flowers expressed.

For all the cash they helped to net, In streets where stood their rosy stalls, Went to reduce that endless debt Which is the curse of hospitals; And Chairmen cast dull care away And danced on Alexandra Day!

[Ill.u.s.tration]

THE END OF THE SEASON

How grimy and gritty are streets in the City, How parched is each pavement and park, Where Londoners harried in thoroughfares arid Forgather from dawn until dark!

An atmosphere torrid, oppressive and horrid, With leather-like lungs we inhale, While odorous motors (more pungent than bloaters) Our impotent nostrils a.s.sail, And whistles and catcalls and horns without number Combine to destroy all our chances of slumber!

How weary my heart is of dinners and parties, How sick of each concert and play!

All social exertion I view with aversion, Of banquets I dream with dismay.

Each moment enhances my hatred of dances, All luncheons with loathing I hail; At ev'ry collation, in sheer detestation, I shrink from each cutlet or quail; For though I enjoy such delights within reason, I gratefully welcome the end of the Season!

The holiday feeling is over me stealing, I long to escape from the town, Exchanging its highways for hedges and byways, For moorland and meadow and down.

In cobble-paved alleys how verdant the valleys, How fragrant the forests appear, Where fountains are flashing, and rivulets splashing Make melody sweet to the ear; Where Orpheus his musical message delivers, And Pan and his piping are heard by the rivers!

[Ill.u.s.tration]

THE c.o.c.kNEY OF THE NORTH

(_With apologies to W. B. Yeats_)

I will arise and go now, and go to Inverness, And a small villa rent there, of lath and plaster built; Nine bedrooms will I have there, and I'll don my native dress, And walk about in a d---- loud kilt.

And I will have some sport there, when grouse come driven slow, Driven from purple hill-tops to where the loaders quail; While midges bite their ankles, and shots are flying low, And the air is full of the grey-hen's tail.

I will arise and go now, for ever, day and night, I hear the taxis bleating and the motor-'buses roar, And over tarred macadam and pavements parched and white I've walked till my feet are sore!

For it's oh, to be in Scotland! now that August's nearly there, Where the capercailzie warble on the mountain's rugged brow; There's pleasure and contentment, there's sport and bracing air, In Scotland----now!

[Ill.u.s.tration]

'THE TWELFTH'

If you're waking, call me early, Call me early, Rob MacDougall, When the skies are pale and pearly And the air is keen and chill; And we'll break our fast together, In a fashion somewhat frugal, And be off across the heather To 'the hill.'

Soon will coveys come a-flitting, Over purple slopes and ridges, To the b.u.t.ts where we are sitting With our loaders close behind.

Though the mist obscure our vision, And our necks are stung by midges, And we shoot without precision, Never mind!

If the birds fly fast and freely O'er the lair where we are lying With the cartridges that Eley So obligingly supplies, When the drive is duly ended We can count the dead and dying We have rent (or is it 'rended'?) From the skies!

As we stimulate the labours Of retrievers bent on finding Stricken birds our next-door neighbours Will indubitably claim, We declare to one another (Though we scarcely need reminding) That a grouse beats any other Kind of game, And that, given sport and weather, There is nothing like the thrill Of a day among the heather On the hill!