The Motley Muse Part 9

NOVEMBER

Poets may proclaim the praises Of some fragrant April day, Search their lexicons for phrases To describe the dew-drenched daisies Of each merry May; Minor bards may work like n.i.g.g.e.rs, Framing epic rhyme or rune, To extol the timely rigours Of an English June; Though its charms I well remember, I prefer November!

Though the tourists sing together When July is warm and bright, While to sportsmen on the heather, Bent on bagging fur and feather, August brings delight; Though September's seldom stormy, And October, chill and dry, Carries joy to every Dormy- House from Wick to Rye; Yet (since I am not a member) I prefer November!

In the street the slime may spatter Ev'ry wretched pa.s.ser-by; Hail and sleet and snow may batter On my window-pane--what matter?

What on earth care I?

Other months may be less muddy, Or a fairer face present; In my cheerful firelit study I am quite content!

Seated by the glowing ember, I prefer November!

THE CYNIC'S CHRISTMAS

Christmas is here! Let us deck ev'ry dwelling With evergreen branches and mistletoe boughs!

With thoughts philanthropic our bosoms are swelling, No shadow should darken our brows!

(But, alas! when we're fixing festoons to the ceiling, The ladders we stand on are apt to give way, When a desolate feeling comes over us stealing; 'Tis hard to be merry and gay!

And it's difficult, too, to feel thoroughly jolly When painfully punctured by pieces of holly!)

Christmas is here! Let the plums and the suet Be mingled once more in ungrudging supplies!

Let the lover of punch hasten swiftly to brew it!

Make ready a score of mince-pies!

(But, alas! let us not be completely forgetful Of how indigestion is fostered and bred, How a surfeit of food makes the family fretful, While alcohol flies to the head; Lest a fortnight devoted to over-nutrition Entail a recourse to the nearest physician!)

Christmas is here! Ev'ry mother shall borrow Her spouse's best stockings to tie to the cot Of the baby, who hopes they'll contain, on the morrow, Drums, trumpets, and goodness knows what!

(But it's rather a blow when the footwear allotted To hang full of goodies and toys through the night, Is returned to its owner, misshapen and clotted With toffee and Turkish Delight; While a drum is a bore if you constantly thump it, And life can be poisoned by sounds from a trumpet!)

[Ill.u.s.tration]

Christmas is here! All our nephews and nieces Troop happily home to delight us at Yule!

We rejoice when the holiday season releases The inmates of college and school!

(But perhaps when at dawn they awake us by shouting 'When Shepherds'--a hymn which they sing out of tune-- They may furnish some fifty good reasons for doubting If holidays _are_ such a boon; And even the kindliest relative wearies Of constantly answering juvenile queries!)

Christmas is here! Little children excited Make domiciles vocal with shrieks of applause, As they ask that the candle-decked fir-tree be lighted, In honour of kind Santa Claus!

(But, alas! for the person of years known as 'riper'!

By clatter and racket his nerves are unstrung; He is followed about, like a second Pied Piper, By droves of the clamorous young!

All in vain does he seek for some haven of quiet; No room in the building is free from their riot!)

Christmas is here! Let us load our relations With presents expensive and offerings rare, And a.s.sume, as we lavish our tips and donations, A n.o.ble and bountiful air!

(But, alas! when we've purchased the costliest jewel For dear Cousin Jane, and despatched it by post, And she sends in return a small mat, worked in crewel, And worth eighteenpence at the most, Shall we say, recollecting the gift that we bought her, 'Dear Jane is a trifle more _dear_ than we thought her'?)

Christmas is here! Let us go serenading, In glees and in madrigals raising our voice, In the snow of the street, 'neath your windows parading, O maidens divine of our choice!

(But we mustn't forget how our _last_ Christmas carols Were spoilt by your parents' inhuman attacks, When they brought out their shot-guns and emptied both barrels Bang into the smalls of our backs!

If one justly expects some applause and encoring, A ball in the back is excessively boring!)

Christmas is here! At a season so sprightly We banish all thoughts about mundane affairs, And attempt to be gay and to smile fairly brightly, In spite of our worries and cares.

(But financial embarra.s.sments mortify most men Whose hearts a prognostic of bankruptcy grips, When the dustmen and milkmen, policemen and postmen, Demand their habitual tips!)

Then tell me--and grateful I'll be to you, very-- Oh, tell me why Christmas was ever called 'Merry'!

ENVOI

[All work, says a well-known humorist, is an unutterable bore.

All that concerns the writer are the cheques his work brings him in.]

Simple is the man who fancies, In his fond and foolish heart, That the author weaves romances For the love of Art; That the poet's torch, ignited By some sacred inner fire, Is a spark of genius lighted To illume his lyre; That 'tis Honour or Ambition Prompts the bard to composition!

No celestial inspiration Gilds the poet's cheerless den, Kindles his imagination, Stirs his sluggish pen; No divine _afflatus_, blowing From some charmed Pierian font, Starts the springs of fancy flowing Like the spur of Want.

This, poor Pegasus controlling, Sets the eye in frenzy rolling!

Not in search of fame or rank is He who drives this fretful quill, But his balance at the bank is Practically _nil_, And the cause, the motive, lying At his inspiration's roots, Is the sound of children crying, Crying out for boots; 'Tis the need for ready money Makes the humorist so funny!

FOOTNOTES:

[1] A species of pollack.

[2] Another species of pollack.