Verse and Worse Part 1

Verse and Worse.

by Harry Graham.

PREFACE

With guilty, conscience-stricken tears, I offer up these rhymes of mine To children of maturer years (From Seventeen to Ninety-nine).

A special solace may they be In days of second infancy.

The frenzied mother who observes This volume in her offspring's hand, And trembles for the darling's nerves, Must please to clearly understand, If baby suffers by and by The Publisher's at fault, not _I_!

But should the little brat survive, And fatten on this style of Rhyme, To raise a Heartless Home and thrive Through a successful life of crime, The Publisher would have you see That _I_ am to be thanked, not _he_!

Fond parent, you whose children are Of tender age (from two to eight), Pray keep this little volume far From reach of such, and relegate My verses to an upper shelf; Where you may study them yourself.

FOREWORD

The Press may pa.s.s my Verses by With sentiments of indignation, And say, like Greeks of old, that I Corrupt the Youthful Generation; I am unmoved by taunts like these-- (And so, I think, was Socrates).

Howe'er the Critics may revile, I pick no journalistic quarrels, Quite realising that my Style Makes up for any lack of Morals; For which I feel no shred of shame-- (And Byron would have felt the same).

I don't intend a Child to read These lines, which are not for the Young; For, if I did, I should indeed Feel fully worthy to be hung.

(Is 'hanged' the perfect tense of 'hang'?

Correct me, Mr. Andrew Lang!)

O Young of Heart, tho' in your prime, By you these verses may be seen!

Accept the Moral with the Rhyme, And try to gather what I mean.

But, if you can't, it won't hurt me!

(And Browning would, I know, agree.)

Be rea.s.sured, I have not got The style of Stephen Phillips' heroes, Nor Henry Jones's pow'r of Plot, Nor wit like Arthur Wing Pinero's!

(If so, I should not waste my time In writing you this sort of rhyme.)

I strive to paint things as they Are, Of Realism the true Apostle; All flow'ry metaphors I bar, Nor call the homely thrush a 'throstle.'

Such synonyms would make me smile.

(And so they would have made Carlyle.)

My Style may be, at times, I own, A trifle cryptic or abstruse; In this I do not stand alone, And need but mention, in excuse, A thousand world-familiar names, From Meredith to Henry James.

From these my fruitless fancy roams To Aesop's or La Fontaine's Fable, From Doyle's or Hemans' 'Stately Ho(l)mes,'

To t'other of The Breakfast Table; Like Galahad, I wish (in vain) 'My wit were as the wit of Twain!

Had I but Whitman's rugged skill, (And managed to escape the Censor), The Accuracy of a Mill, The Reason of a Herbert Spencer, The literary talents even Of Sidney Lee or Leslie Stephen,

The pow'r of Patmore's placid pen, Or Watson's gift of execration, The sugar of Le Gallienne, Or Algernon's alliteration, One post there is I'd not be lost in, --Tho' I might find it most ex-Austin'!

Some day, if I but study hard, The public, vanquished by my pen, 'll Acclaim me as a Minor Bard, Like Norman Gale or Mrs. Meynell; And listen to my lyre a-rippling Imperial banjo-spasms like Kipling.

Were I, like him, a syndicate, Which publishers would put their trust in; A Walter Pater up-to-date, Or flippant scholar like Augustine; With pen as light as lark or squirrel, I'd love to kipple, pate and birrell.

So don't ignore me. If you should, 'Twill touch me to the very heart oh!

To be as much misunderstood As once was Andrea del Sarto; Unrecognised, to toil away, Like Millet,--(not, of course, Mill_ais_).

And, pray, for Morals do not look In this unique agglomeration, --This unpretentious little book Of Infelicitous Quotation.

I deem you foolish if you do, (And Mr. Arnold thinks so, too).

PART I

_THE BABY'S BAEDEKER_

An International Guide-Book for the young of all ages; peculiarly adapted to the wants of first and second Childhood.

I

ABROAD

Abroad is where we tourists spend, In divers unalluring ways, The brief occasional week-end, Or annual Easter holidays; And earn the (not ill-founded) charge Of being lunatics at large.

Abroad, we lose our self-respect; Wear whiskers; let our teeth protrude; Consider any garb correct, And no display of temper rude; Descending, when we cross the foam, To depths we dare not plumb at home.

(Small wonder that the natives gaze, With hostile eyes, at foreign freaks, Who patronise their Pa.s.sion-plays, In lemon-coloured chessboard breeks; An op'ra-gla.s.s about each neck, And on each head a cap of check.)

Abroad, where needy younger sons, When void the parent's treasure-chest, Take refuge from insistent duns, At urgent relatives' request; To live upon their slender wits, Or sums some maiden-aunt remits.

Abroad, whence (with a wisdom rare) Regardless of nostalgic pains, The weary New York millionaire Retires with his oil-gotten gains, And learns how deep a pleasure 'tis To found our Public Libraries.

For ours is the primeval clan, From which all lesser lights descend; Is Crockett not our countryman?

And call we not Corelli friend?

Our brotherhood has bred the brain Whose offspring bear the brand of Caine.

Tho' nowadays we seldom hear Miss Proctor, who mislaid a chord, Or Tennyson, the poet peer, Who came into the garden, Mord; Tho' Burns be dead, and Keats unread, We have a prophet still in Stead.

And so we stare, with nose in air; And speak in condescending tone, Of foreigners whose climes compare So favourably with our own; And aliens we cannot applaud Who call themselves At Home Abroad!

II