The Scarlet Gown Part 3

The last straw to the earth will bow The o'erloaded camel, And surely I resembled now That ill-used mammal.

See how a thankless world regards The gifted choir Of minstrels, singers, poets, bards, Who sweep the lyre.

This is the recompense we meet In our vocation.

We bear the burden and the heat Of inspiration;

The beauties of the earth we sing In glowing numbers, And to the 'reading public' bring Post-prandial slumbers;

We save from Mammon's gross dominion These sordid times . . .

And all this, in the world's opinion, Is 'stringing rhymes.'

It is as if a man should say, In accents mild, 'Have you been stringing beads to-day, My gentle child?'

(Yet even children fond of singing Will pay off scores, And I to-day at least am stringing Not beads but bores.)

And now the sands were left behind, The Club-house past.

I wondered, Can I hope to find Escape at last,

Or must I take him home to tea, And bear his chatter Until the last train to Dundee Shall solve the matter?

But while I shuddered at the thought And planned resistance, My conquering Alexander caught Sight in the distance

Of two young ladies, one of whom Is his ambition; And so, with somewhat heightened bloom, He asked permission

To say good-bye to me and follow.

I freely gave it, And wished him all success. _Apollo_ _Sic me servavit_.

A BUNCH OF TRIOLETS

TO ---

You like the trifling triolet: Well, here are three or four.

Unless your likings I forget, You like the trifling triolet.

Against my conscience I abet A taste which I deplore; You like the trifling triolet: Well, here are three or four.

Have you ever met with a pretty girl Walking along the street, With a nice new dress and her hair in curl?

Have you ever met with a pretty girl, When her hat blew off and the wind with a whirl Wafted it right to your feet?

Have you ever met with a pretty girl Walking along the street?

I ran into a lady's arms, Turning a corner yesterday.

To my confusion, her alarms, I ran into a lady's arms.

So close a vision of her charms Left me without a word to say.

I ran into a lady's arms, Turning a corner yesterday.

How many maids you love, How many maids love you!

Your conscious blushes prove How many maids you love.

Each trusts you like a dove, But would she, if she knew How many maids you love, How many maids love you?

A BALLAD OF REFRESHMENT

The lady stood at the station bar, (Three currants in a bun) And oh she was proud, as ladies are.

(And the bun was baked a week ago.)

For a weekly wage she was standing there, (Three currants in a bun) With a prominent bust and light gold hair.

(And the bun was baked a week ago.)

The express came in at half-past two, (Three currants in a bun) And there lighted a man in the navy blue.

(And the bun was baked a week ago.)

A stout sea-captain he was, I ween.

(Three currants in a bun) Much travel had made him very keen.

(And the bun was baked a week ago.)

A sober man and steady was he.

(Three currants in a bun) He called not for brandy, but called for tea.

(And the bun was baked a week ago.)

'Now something to eat, for the train is late.'

(Three currants in a bun) She brought him a bun on a greasy plate.

(And the bun was baked a week ago.)

He left the bun, and he left the tea, (Three currants in a bun) She charged him a s.h.i.+lling and let him be, And the train went on at a quarter to three.

(And the bun is old and weary.)

A DECEMBER DAY

Blue, blue is the sea to-day, Warmly the light Sleeps on St. Andrews Bay-- Blue, fringed with white.

That's no December sky!

Surely 'tis June Holds now her state on high, Queen of the noon.

Only the tree-tops bare Crowning the hill, Clear-cut in perfect air, Warn us that still

Winter, the aged chief, Mighty in power, Exiles the tender leaf, Exiles the flower.

Is there a heart to-day, A heart that grieves For flowers that fade away, For fallen leaves?