Or, 'Please leave off, you naughty boy!'

(But this, of course, is just her way, She wouldn't wish you to obey.)

The lover, in a trembling voice, Demands the hand of his lovee, And begs the lady of his choice To share some cottage-by-the-sea; With _her_ a prison would be nice, A coal-cellar a Paradise!

'Love in a cottage' sounds so well; But oh, my too impatient bride, No drainage and a constant smell Of something being over-fried Is not the sort of atmosphere That makes for wedded bliss, my dear.

And when the bills are rather high, And when the money's rather low, See poor Virginia sit and sigh, And ask why Paul _must_ grumble so!

He slams the door and strides about, And, through the window, Love creeps out.

'Tis said that Cupid blinds our sight With fire of pa.s.sion from above, Nor ever bids us see aright The many faults in those we love; Ah no! I deem it otherwise, For lovers have the clearest eyes.

They see the faults, the failures, and The great temptations, and they know, Although they cannot understand, That they would have the loved one so.

Believe me, Love is never blind, His smiling eyes are wise and kind.

Tho' lovers quarrel, yet, I ween, 'Tis but to make it up again; The sunshine seems the more serene That follows after April rain; And love should lead, if love be true, To perfect understanding too.

If in our hearts this love beats strong, We shall not ever seek to earn Forgiveness for some fancied wrong, Nor need to pardon in return; But learn this lesson as we live, 'To understand is to forgive.'

And all you little girls and boys Will find this out yourselves, some day, When you have done with childish toys And put your infant books away.

Ah! then I pray that hand-in-hand You tread the paths of Loverland.

_MORAL_

Don't fall in love, but, when you do, Take care that he (or she) does too; And, lastly, to misquote the bard, If you _must_ love, don't love too hard.

XXII

HOMELAND

The tour is over! We must part!

Our mutual journey at an end.

O bid farewell, with aching heart, To guide, philosopher, and friend; And note, as you remark 'Good-bye!'

The kindly tear that dims his eye.

The tour is ended! Sad but true!

No more together may we roam!

We turn our lonely footsteps to The spot that's known as Home, Sweet Home.

Nor time nor temper can afford A more protracted trip abroad.

O Home! where we must always be So hopelessly misunderstood; Where waits a tactless family, To tell us things 'for our own good'; Where relatives, with searchlight eyes, Can penetrate our choicest lies.

Where all our kith and kin combine To prove that we are worse than rude, If we should criticise the wine Or make complaints about the food.

Thank goodness, then, to quote the pome, Thank goodness there's 'no place like Home!'

PART II

_CHILDISH COMPLAINTS_

AND

_OTHER RUTHLESS RHYMES_

CHILDISH COMPLAINTS

PRELUDE

(_By Way of Advertis.e.m.e.nt_)

I have no knowledge of disease, No notion what ill-health may be, Since Housemaid's Throat and Smoker's Knees Mean something different to me To what they do to other folk.

(This is, I vow, no vulgar joke.)

Of course, when young, I had complaints, And little childish accidents; For twice I ate a box of paints, And once I swallowed eighteen pence.

(_N.B._, I missed the paints a lot, But got the coins back on the spot.)

But no pract.i.tioner has seen My tongue since then, down to the present, And I, alas! have never been An interesting convalescent.

Ah! why am I alone denied The Humour of a weak inside?

Why is it? I will tell you why; A certain mixture is to blame.

One day for fun I chanced to try A bottle of--what _is_ the name?

That thing they advertise a lot,-- (Oh, what a memory I've got!)

It's stuff you must, of course, have seen, Retailed in bottles, tins, or pots, In cakes or little pills, I mean-- (Oh goodness me! I've bought such lots, That I am really much to blame For not remembering the name!)

Still, let me recommend a keg (With maker's name, be sure, above it), 'Tis sweeter than a new-mown egg, And village idiots simply love it; Old persons sit and scream for it,-- I do so hope you'll try a bit!

So efficacious is this stuff, Its virtue and its strength are such, One single bottle is enough,-- In fact, at times, 'tis far too much.

(The patient dies in frightful pain, Or else survives, and tries again.)

An aunt of mine felt anyhow, All kind-of-odd, and gone-to-bits, Had freckles badly too; but now She doesn't have a thing but fits.

She's just as strong as any horse,-- Tho' still an invalid, of course.

I had an uncle, too, that way, His health was in a dreadful plight; Would often spend a sleepless day, And lie unconscious half the night.

He took two bottles, large and small, And now--he has no health at all!

The Moral plainly bids you buy This stuff, whose name I have forgotten; You won't regret it, if you try-- (My memory is simply rotten!) My funds will profit, in addition, Since I enjoy a small commission!

CHILDISH COMPLAINTS

_No. 1 (Appendicitis)_