Verse and Worse Part 3

Corruption is not nice at all, Unless the bribe be far from small.

XII

ITALY

In Italy the sky is blue; The native loafs and lolls about, He's nothing in the world to do, And does it fairly well, no doubt; (Ital-i-ans are disinclined To honest work of any kind).

A light Chianti wine he drinks, And fancies it extremely good; (It tastes like Stephens' Blue-black Inks);-- While macaroni is his food.

(I think it must be rather hard To eat one's breakfast by the yard).

And, when he leaves his country for Some northern climate, 'tis his dream To be an organ grinder, or Retail bacilli in ice-cream.

(The French or German student terms These creatures '_Paris_ites' or '_Germs_.')

Sometimes an anarchist is he, And wants to slay a king or queen; So with some dynamite, may be, Concocts a murderous machine; 'Here goes!' he shouts, 'For Freedom's sake!'

Then blows himself up by mistake.

Naples and Florence both repay A visit, and, if fortune takes Your toddling little feet that way, Do stop a moment at The Lakes.

While, should you go to Rome, I hope You'll leave your card upon the Pope.

_MORAL_

Don't work too hard, but use a wise discretion; Adopt the least laborious profession.

Don't be an anarchist, but, if you must, Don't let your bombsh.e.l.l prematurely bust.

XIII

j.a.pAN

Inhabitants of far j.a.pan Are happy as the day is long To sit behind a paper fan And sing a kind of tuneless song, Desisting, ev'ry little while, To have a public bath, or smile.

The members of the fairer s.e.x Are clad in a becoming dress, One garment reaching from their necks Down to the ankles more or less; Behind each dainty ear they wear A cherry-blossom in their hair.

If 'Imitation's flattery'

(We learn it at our mother's lap), A flatterer by birth must be Our clever little friend the j.a.p, Who does whatever we can do, And does it rather better too.

_MORAL_

Be happy all the time, and plan To wash as often as you can.

XIV

PORTUGAL

You are requested, if you please, To note that here a people lives Referred to as the Portuguese; A fact which naturally gives The funny man a good excuse To call his friend a Portugoose.

_MORAL_

Avoid the obvious, if you can, And _never_ be a funny man.

XV

RUSSIA

The Russian Empire, as you see, Is governed by an Autocrat, A sort of human target he For anarchists to practise at; And much relieved most people are Not to be lodging with the Czar.

The Russian lets his whiskers grow, Smokes cigarettes at meal-times, and Imbibes more 'vodki' than 'il faut'; A habit which (I understand) Enables him with ease to tell His name, which n.o.body could spell.

The climate here is cold, with snow, And you go driving in a sleigh, With bells and all the rest, you know, Just like a Henry Irving play; While, all around you, glare the eyes Of secret officers and spies!

The Russian prisons have no drains, No windows or such things as that; You have no playthings there but chains, And no companion but a rat; When once behind the dungeon door, Your friends don't see you any more.

I further could enlarge, 'tis true, But fear my trembling pen confines; I have no wish to travel to Siberia and work the mines.

(In Russia you must write with care, Or the police will take you there.)

_MORAL_

If you hold morbid views about A monarch's premature decease, You only need a--Hi! Look out!

Here comes an agent of police!

(In future my address will be 'Siberia, Cell 63.')

XVI

SPAIN

'Tis here the Spanish onion grows, And they eat garlic all the day, So, if you have a tender nose, 'Tis best to go the other way, Or else you may discern, at length, The fact that 'Onion is strength.'

The chestnuts flourish in this land, Quite good to eat, as you will find, For they are not, you understand, The ancient after-dinner kind That Yankees are accustomed to From Mr. Chauncey M. Depew.

The Spanish lady, by the bye, Is an alluring person who Has got a bright and flas.h.i.+ng eye, And knows just how to use it too; It's quite a treat to see her meet The proud hidalgo on the street.

He wears a sort of soft felt hat, A dagger, and a cloak, you know, Just like the wicked villains that We met in plays of long ago, Who sneaked about with aspect glum, Remarking, 'Ha! A time will come!'

His blood, of blue cerulean hue, Runs in his veins like liquid fire, And he can be most rude if you Should rob him of his heart's desire; 'Caramba!' he exclaims, and whack!

His dagger perforates your back!

If you should care to patronise A bull-fight, as you will no doubt, You'll see a horse with blinded eyes Be very badly mauled about; By such a scene a weak inside Is sometimes rather sorely tried.

And, if the bull is full of fun, The horse is generally gored, So then they fetch another one, Or else the first one is encored; The humour of the sport, of course, Is not so patent to the horse.