Impertinent Poems Part 4

To lie outright in the light of day I'm not sufficiently skilful, But I practice a bit, in an amateur way, The lie which is hardly wilful; The society lie and the business lie And the lie I have had to double, And the lie that I lie when I don't know why And the truth is too much trouble.

For this I am willing to take your blame Unless you have sometimes done the same.

To be a fool of an A1 brand I'm not sufficiently clever, But I often have tried my 'prentice hand In a callow and crude endeavor; A fool with the money for which I've toiled, A fool with the word I've spoken, And the foolish fool who is fooled and foiled On a maiden's finger broken.

If you never yourself have made a slip, I'm willing to watch you curl your lip.

And yet my blood and my bone resist If you dub me fool and liar.

I set my teeth and double my fist And my brow is flushed with fire.

You I deny and you I defy And I vow I will make you rue it; And I lie when I say that I never lie, Which proves me a fool to do it!

You may jerk your thumb at me and grin If liar and fool you never have been.

THE CONSERVATIVE.

At twenty, as you proudly stood And read your thesis, "Brotherhood,"

If I remember right, you saw The fatuous faults of social law.

At twenty-five you braved the storm And dug the trenches of Reform, Stung by some gadfly in your breast Which would not let your spirit rest.

At thirty-five you made a pause To sum the columns of The Cause; You noted, with unwilling eye, The heedless world had pa.s.sed you by.

At forty you had always known Man owes a duty to His Own.

Man's life is as man's life is made; The game is fair, if fairly played.

At fifty, after years of stress You bore the banner of Success.

All men have virtues, all have sins, And G.o.d is with the man who wins.

At sixty, from your captured heights You fly the flag of Vested Rights, Bounded by bonds collectable, And hopelessly respectable!

HUSH.

What's the best thing that you ever have done?

The whitest day, The cleverest play That ever you set in the s.h.i.+ne of the sun?

The time that you felt just a wee bit proud Of defying the cry of the cowardly crowd And stood back to back with G.o.d?

Aye, I notice you nod, But silence yourself, lest you bring me shame That I have no answering deed to name.

What's the worst thing that ever you did?

The darkest spot, The blackest blot On the page you have pasted together and hid?

Ah, sometimes you think you've forgotten it quite, Till it crawls in your bed in the dead of the night And brands you its own with a blush.

What was it? Nay, hus.h.!.+

Don't tell it to me, for fear it be known That I have an answering blush of my own.

But whenever you notice a clean hit made, Sing high and clear The sounding cheer You would gladly have heard for the play you played, And when a man walks in the way forbidden, Think you of the thing you have happily hidden And spare him the sting of your tongue.

Do I do that which I've sung?

Well, it may be I don't and it may be I do, But I'm telling the thing which is good for _you_!

THE ISLAND.

You, my friend, in your long-tailed coat, With your white cravat at your withered throat, Praying by proxy of him you hire, Wors.h.i.+ping G.o.d with a quartet choir, b.u.mping your head on the pew in front, a.s.senting "Amen!" with an unctuous grunt, Are you sure it is you In the pew?

Look!

You're away on a lonely isle, Where the scant breech-clout is the only style, Where the day of the week forgets its name, Where G.o.d and devil are all the same.

Look at yourself in your careless clout, And tell me, then, would you be devout?

One on the island, one in the pew-- How do you know which is you?

You, dear maiden, with eyes askance At the little soubrette and her daring dance, Thanking G.o.d that His ways are wide To allow you to pa.s.s on the other side, You, as you ask, "Will the world approve?"

At the hint of a wabble out of the groove,

Look!

On that isle of the lonely sea Are you, the saucy soubrette and _he_.

And the little grooves that you circle in Are forever as though they never had been.

Now you are naked of soul and limb: Will you say what you will not dare--for him?

Which of the women is real?

The one you appear, or the one you feel?

You, good sir, with your neck a-stretch, As the van goes by with the prison wretch, Asking naught of his ills or hurts, Judging "he's getting his just deserts,"

Pluming yourself that the moral laws Are centred in you as effect and cause.

Look!

At the island, and there you are With the long, strong arm which reaches far, And there are the natives who kneel and bow, And where are your _meum et tuum_ now?

Are you sure that the balance swings quite true?

Or does it a little incline to you?

Answer or not as you will, but oh, I have an island, too, and so I know, I know.

HUMBLER HEROES.

It might not be so difficult to lead the light brigade, While the army cheered behind you, and the fifes and bugles played; It might be rather easy, with the war-shriek in your ears, To forget the bite of bullets and the taste of blood and tears.