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Author of "Ruthless Rhymes for Heartless 

Homes *' " Ballads of the Boer War " 

"The Baby's Baedeker" 



Copyright,. 1 90.3 r by Robert' ijoward Russell 

.'.,...*,♦.• ptfblismetTMayj '1903. 


5 ti t *>i) * 

Perverted Proverbs 

Dedicated to 

Helen Whitney 

DO you recall those bygone days, 
When you received with kindly praise 

My bantling book of Rhyme ? 
Praise undeserved, alas ! and yet 
How sweet ! For, tho' we had not met, 

(Ah ! what a waste of time ! ) 
I could the more enjoy such mercies 
Since I delighted in your verses. 

And when a Poet stoops to smile 
On some one of the rank and file, 

(Inglorious — if not mute,) 
Some groundling bard who craves to 



Like me, the dizzy rungs of Rhyme, 

To reach the Golden Fruit ; 
For one in such a situation 
The faintest praise is no damnation. 

Parnassus heights must surely pall ; 
For simpler diet do you call, 

Of nectar growing tired ? 
These verses to your feet I bring, 
Drawn from an unassuming spring, 

Well-meant — if not inspired ; 
O charming Poet's charming daughter, 
Descend and taste my toast and water ! 

For you alone these lines I write, 
That, reading them, your brow may 

Beneath its crown of bays; 
Your eyes may sparkle like a star, 
With friendship, that is dearer far 

Than any breath of praise ; 


The which a lucky man possessing 
Can ask no higher human blessing. 

And, though the " salt estranging sea " 
Be widely spread 'twixt you and me, 

We have what makes amends ; 
And since I am so glad of you, 
Be glad of me a little, too, 

Because of being friends. 
And, if I earn your approbation, 
Accept my humble dedication. 

H. G. 




THE Press may pass 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 realizing 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 ,J ? 
Correct me, Mr. Andrew Lang ! ) 

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 reassured, 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.) 

1 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 seek the Ade of Modern Fable, 

From Doyle's or Hemans' "Stately 
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 a syndicate like K. 

Or flippant scholar like Augustine; 
[7 J 


Had I the style of Pater, say, 

Which ev'ryone would put their 
trust in, 
Pd love (as busy as a squirrel) 
To pate, to kipple, and to birrel. 

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; 

Unrecognized to toil away, 

Like Millet — not, of course, Millais. 

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. Russell thinks so, too). 



"Virtue is Its Own Reward" 

VIRTUE its own reward? Alas! 

And what a poor one as a rule! 
Be Virtuous and Life will pass 

Like one long term of Sunday-School. 
(No prospect, truly, could one find 
More unalluring to the mind.) 

You may imagine that it pays 

To practise Goodness. Not a bit! 

You cease receiving any praise 

When people have got used to it; 

'Tis generally understood 

You find it easy to be good. 

The Model Child has got to keep 
His fingers and his garments white; 

In church he may not go to sleep, 
Nor ask to stop up late at night. 

In fact he must not ever do 

A single thing he wishes to. 


•^^ ^aggjiag ^^— — — — — rrn 

He may not paddle in his boots, 
Like naughty children, at the Sea; 

The sweetness of Forbidden Fruits 
Is not, alas ! for such as he. 

He watches, with pathetic eyes, 

His weaker brethren make mud-pies. 

He must not answer back, oh no ! 

However rude grown-ups may be, 
But keep politely silent, tho' 

He brim with scathing repartee; 
For nothing is considered worse 
Than scoring off Mamma or Nurse. 

He must not eat too much at meals, 
Nor scatter crumbs upon the floor; 

However vacuous he feels, 

He may not pass his plate for more ; 

— Not tho' his ev'ry organ ache 

For further slabs of Christmas cake. 



He is enjoined to choose his food 
From what is easy to digest ; 

A choice which in itself is good, 
But never what he likes the best. 

(At times how madly he must wish 

For just one real unwholesome dish ! ) 

And, when the wretched urchin plays 
With other little girls and boys, 

He has to show unselfish ways 

By giving them his choicest toys; 

His ears he lets them freely box, 

Or pull his lubricated locks. 

His face is always being washed, 
His hair perpetually brushed, 
And thus his brighter side is squashed, 
His human instincts warped and 
crushed ; 
Small wonder that his early years 
Are filled with "thoughts too deep for 



J333 ^=^=^ —it- 

He is commanded not to waste 

The fleeting hours of childhood's 
By giving way to any taste 

For circuses or matinees ; 
For him the entertainments planned 
Are " Lectures on the Holy Land." 

He never reads a story book 
By Rider H. or Winston C, 

In vain upon his desk you'd look 
For tales by Richard Harding D. ; 

Nor could you find upon his shelf 

The works of Rudyard — or myself ! 

He always fears that he may do 
Some action that is infra dig,, 

And so he lives his short life through 
In the most noxious role of Prig. 

("Short life" I say, for it's agreed 

The Good die very young indeed.) 


Ah me! How sad it is to think 

He could have lived like me — or 
you ! 
With practice and a taste for drink, 
Our joys he might have known, he 
And shared the pleasure we have had 
In being gloriously bad ! 

The Naughty Boy gets much delight 
From doing what he should not do; 

But, as such conduct isn't Right, 
He sometimes suffers for it, too. 

Yet, what's a spanking to the fun 

Of leaving vital things Undone? 

If he's notoriously bad, 

But for a day should change his ways, 
His parents will be all so glad, 

They'll shower him with gifts and 

praise ! 



(It pays a connoisseur in crimes 
To be a perfect saint at times.) 

Of course there always lies the chance 
That he is charged with being ill, 

And all his innocent romance 
Is ruined by a rhubarb pill. 

(Alas ! 'Tis not alone the Good 

That are so much misunderstood.) 

But, as a rule, when he behaves 
(Evincing no malarial signs), 

His friends are all his faithful slaves, 
Until he once again declines 

With easy conscience, more or less, 

To undiluted wickedness. 

The Wicked flourish like the bay, 
At Cards or Love they always win, 

Good Fortune dogs their steps all day, 
They fatten while the Good grow 



The Righteous Man has much to 

The Bad becomes a Bullionaire ! 

For, though he be the greatest sham, 
Luck favours him his whole life 
through ; 

At " Bridge'' he always makes a Slam 
After declaring " Sans atout" ; 

With ev'ry deal his fate has planned 

A hundred Aces in his hand. 

And it is always just the same; 

He somehow manages to win, 
By mere good fortune, any game 

That he may be competing in. 
At Golf no bunker breaks his club, 
For him the green provides no " rub.'' 

At Billiards, too, he flukes away 
(With quite unnecessary " side "V; 


m*9 r.emi 

No matter what he tries to play, 

For him the pockets open wide; 
He never finds both balls in baulk, 
Or makes miss-cues for want of chalk. 

He swears ; he very likely bets ; 

He even wears a flaming necktie ; 
Inhales Egyptian cigarettes 

And has a "Mens Inconscia Recti"; 
Yet, spite of all, one must confess 
That naught succeeds like his excess. 

There's no occasion to be Just, 
No need for motives that are fine, 

To be Director of a Trust, 
Or Manager of a Combine; 

Your corner is a public curse, 

Perhaps ; but it will fill your purse. 

Then stride across the Public's bones, 
Crush all opponents under you, 


Until you " rise on stepping-stones 
Of their dead selves"; and, when 
you do, 
The widow's and the orphan's tears 
Shall comfort your declining years ! 

But having had your boom in oil, 
And made your millions out of it, 

Would you propose to cease from toil ? 
Great Vanderfeller ! Not a bit ! 

You've got to labour, day and night, 

Until you die — and serve you right! 

Then, when you stop this frenzied race, 
And others in your office sit, 

You'll leave the world a better place, 
— The better for your leaving it ! 

For there's a chance perhaps your heir 

May spend what you've collected there. 

Myself, how lucky I must be, 

That need not fear so gross an end ; 


133.1 — — — j— iiiii gfegt. 

Since Fortune has not favoured me 

With many million pounds to spend. 
(Still, did that fickle Dame relent, 
Fd show you how they should be 

I am not saint enough to feel 
My shoulder ripen to a wing, 

Nor have I wits enough to steal 
His title from the Copper King; 

And there's a vasty gulf between 

The Man I Am and Might Have Been; 

But tho' at dinner I may take 

Too much of Heidsick (extra dry), 

And underneath the table make 
My simple couch just where I lie, 

My mode of roosting on the floor 

Is just a trick and nothing more. 

And when, not Wisely but too Well, 
My thirst I have contrived to quench, 



**5£^ — =^= ' il' I i 

The stories I am apt to tell 

May be, perhaps, a trifle French ; 
(For 'tis in anecdote, no doubt, 
That what's Bred in the Beaune comes 

It does not render me unfit 

To give advice, both wise and right, 
Because I do not follow it 

Myself as closely as I might ; 
There's nothing that I wouldn't do 
To point the proper road to you. 

And this I'm sure of, more or less, 
And trust that you will all agree, 

The Elements of Happiness 

Consist in being — -just like Me; 

No sinner, nor a saint perhaps, 

But — well, the very best of chaps. 

Share the Experience I have had, 
Consider all I've known and seen, 



■asaa ^^ ^— —  BMP— -ja ^e«- 

And Don't be Good, and Don't be 
But cultivate a Golden Mean. 

What makes Existence really nice 
Is Virtue — with a dash of Vice. 



" Enough is as Good as a Feast." 

WHAT is Enough ? An idle dream! 

One cannot have enough, I swear, 
Of Ices or Meringues-and-Cream, 

Nougat or Chocolate Eclairs, 
Of Oysters or of Caviar, 
Of Prawns or Pate de Foie Grarf 

Who would not willingly forsake 
Kindred and Home, without a fuss, 

For Icing from a Birthday Cake, 
Or juicy fat Asparagus, 

And journey over countless seas 

For New Potatoes and Green Peas ? 

They say that a Contented Mind 
Is a Continual Feast; — but where 

The mental frame, and how to find, 
Which can with Turtle Soup com- 



No mind, however full of Ease, 
Could be Continual Toasted Cheese. 

For dinner have a sole to eat, 

(Some Perrier Jouet, '92,) 
An Entree then (and, with the meat, 

A bottle of Lafitte will do), 
A quail, a glass of port (just one), 
Liqueurs and coffee, and you've done. 

But should you want a hearty meal, 
And not this gourmet's lightsome 
Fill up with terrapin and teal, 

Clam chowder, crabs and canvas- 
With all varieties of sauce, 
And dirPrent wines for ev'ry course. 

Your tastes may be of simpler type; — 
A homely glass of " half-and-half/' 



m$B tin 

An onion and a dish of tripe, 

Or headpiece of the kindly calf. 
(Cruel perhaps, but then, you know, 
" 'Faut tout souffrir pour etre veauf") 

'Tis a mistake to eat too much 
Of any dishes but the best; 

And you, of course, should never touch 
A thing you know you can't digest ; 

For instance, lobster; — if you do, 

Well, — I'm amayonnaised at you ! 

Let this be your heraldic crest, 
A bottle (charge) of Champagne, 

A chicken (gorged) with salad (dress'd), 
Below, this motto to explain — 

" Enough is Very Good, may be ; 

Too Much is Good Enough for Me ! " 


" Don't Buy a Pig in a Poke" 

Unscrupulous Pigmongers will 

Attempt to wheedle and to coax 
The ignorant young housewife till 

She purchases her pigs in pokes ; 
Beasts that have got a Lurid Past, 
Or else are far Too Good to Last. 

So, should you not desire to be 
The victim of a cruel hoax, 

Then promise me, ah ! promise me, 
You will not purchase pigs in pokes ! 

('Twould be an error just as big 

To poke your purchase in a pig.) 

Too well I know the bitter cost, 
To turn this subject off with jokes; 

How many a fortune has been lost 
By men who purchased pigs in pokes. 



(Ah! think on such when you would 

With mouths that are replete with 


And, after dinner, round the fire, 
Astride of Grandpa's rugged knee, 

Implore your bored but patient sire 
To tell you what a Poke may be. 

The fact he might disclose to you — 

Which is far more than i" can do. 

The Moral of The Pigs and Pokes 
Is not to make your choice too 
In purchasing a Book of Jokes, 

Pray poke around and take your 
Who knows how rich a mental meal 
The covers of this book conceal? 


" Learn to Take Things Easily'' 

TO these few words, it seems to me, 
A wealth of sound instruction clings ; 

O Learn to Take things easily — 
Espeshly Other People's Things ; 

And Time will make your fingers deft 

At what is known as Petty Theft. 

Your precious moments do not waste ; 

Take Ev'rything that isn't tied ! 
Who knows but you may have a Taste, 

A Gift perhaps, for Homicide, — 
(A Mania which, encouraged, thrives 
On Taking Other People's Lives). 

" Fools and Their Money soon must 
And you can help this on, may be, 
If, in the kindness of your Heart, 

You Learn to Take things easily ; 
And be, with little education, 
A Prince of Misappropriation. 


" A Rolling Stone Gathers No Moss" 

I NEVER understood, I own, 
What anybody (with a soul) 

Could mean by offering a Stone 

This needless warning not to Roll ; 

And what inducement there can be 

To gather Moss I fail to see. 

Pd sooner gather anything, 

Like primroses, or news perhaps, 

Or even wool (when suffering 
A momentary mental lapse) ; 

But could forego my share of moss, 

Nor ever realize the loss. 

'Tis a botanical disease, 

And worthy of remark as such ; 
Lending a dignity to trees, 

To ruins a romantic touch. 
A timely adjunct, I've no doubt, 
But not worth writing home about. 


Of all the Stones I ever met, 

In calm repose upon the ground, 

I really never found one yet 
With a desire to roll around; 

Theirs is a stationary role, — 

(A joke, — and feeble on the whole). 

But, if I were a stone, I swear 

I'd sooner move and view the World 

Than sit and grow the greenest hair 
That ever Nature combed and curled. 

I see no single saving grace 

In being known as " Mossyface ! " 

Instead, I might prove useful for 
A weapon in the hand of Crime, 

A paperweight, a milestone, or 
A missile at Election time; 

In each capacity I could 

Do quite incalculable good. 



When well directed from the Pit, 
I might promote a welcome death, 

If fortunate enough to hit 

Some budding Hamlet or Macbeth, 

Who twice each day the playhouse 
fills, — 

(For further Notice See Small Bills). 

At concerts, too, if you prefer, 

I could prevent your growing deaf, 

By silencing the amateur 

Before she reached that upper F. ; 

Or else, in lieu of half-a-brick, 

Restrain some local Kubelik. 

Then, human stones, take my advice, 
(As you should always do, indeed) ; 

This proverb may be very nice, 
But don't you pay it any heed, 

And, tho' you make the critics cross, 

Roll on, and never mind the moss. 


rrX* ss=^-a sssssas^ — fee** 

"After Dinner Sit a While; After 
Supper Walk a Mile" 
AFTER luncheon sit awhile, 

'Tis an admirable plan; 
After dinner walk a mile — 

But make certain that you can. 
(Were you not this maxim taught; — 
" Good is Wrought by want of Port. ,, ) 

After dinner think on this; 

Join the ladies with a smile, 
And remember that a Miss 

Is as good as any mile. 
(Thus you may be led to feel 
What Amis felt for Amile.) 

Never fear of being shy 

At the houses where you dine ; 
You'll recover by-and-bye, 

With the second glass of wine ; 
And can recognize with bliss 
That a Meal is not amiss. 


"It is Never Too Late to Mend" 
SINCE it can never be too late 

To change your life, or else renew it, 
Let the unpleasant process wait 

Until you are compelled to do it. 
The State provides (and gratis too) 
Establishments for such as you. 

Remember this, and pluck up heart, 
That, be you publican or parson, 

Your ev'ry art must have a start, 
From petty larceny to arson ; 

And even in the burglar's trade, 

The cracksman is not born, but made. 

So, if in your career of crime, 

You fail to carry out some "coup", 

Then try again a second time, 
And yet again, until you do ; 

And don't despair, or fear the worst, 

Because you get found out at first. 


Perhaps the battle will not go, 

On all occasions, to the strongest ; 

You may be fairly certain tho' 

That He Laughs Last who laughs 
the Longest. 

So keep a good reserve of laughter, 

Which may be found of use hereafter. 

Believe me that, howe'er well meant, 
A Good Resolve is always brief; 

Don't let your precious hours be spent 
In turning over a new leaf. 

Such leaves, like Nature's, soon decay, 

And then are only in the way. 

The Road to — well, a certain spot, 
(A Road of very fair dimensions), 

Has, so the proverb tells us, got 

A parquet-floor of Good Intentions. 

Take care, in your desire to please, 

You do not add a brick to these. 


rr^n — see* 

For there may come a moment when 
You shall be mended willy-nilly, 

With many more misguided men, 
Whose skill is undermined with 

Till then procrastinate, my friend ; 

" It Never is Too Late to Mend ! " 




u A Bad Workman Complains of his 

THIS Pen of mine is simply grand, 
I never loved a pen so much; 

This Paper (underneath my hand) 
Is really a delight to touch; 

And never in my life, I think, 

Did I make use of finer ink. 

The Subject upon which I write 
Is everything that I could choose; 

I seldom knew my Wits more bright, 
More cosmopolitan my Views ; 

Nor ever did my Head contain 

So surplus a supply of Brain ! 




THERE are many more Maxims to 

I would like to accord a front place, 
But alas ! I have got 
To omit a whole lot, 

For the lack of available space ; 
And the rest I am forced to boil down 

and condense 
To the following Essence of Sound 

without Sense : 

Now the Pitcher that journeys too oft 
To the Well will get broken at last. 
But you'll find it a fact 
That, by using some tact, 

Such a danger as this can be past. 
(There's an obvious way, and a simple, 

you'll own, 
Which is, if you're a Pitcher, to Let 
Well alone.) 



Haifa loafer is never well-bred, 

And Self-Praise is a Dangerous Thing. 
And the Mice are at play 
When the Cat is away, 

For a moment, inspecting a King. 
(Tho' if Care kills a Cat, as the Pro- 
verbs declare, 
It is right to suppose that the King will 
take care.) 

Don't Halloo till you're out of the 
When a Stitch in Good Time will 
save nine, 
While a Bird in the Hand 
Is worth Two, understand, 

In the Bush that Needs no Good Wine. 
(Tho' the two, if they Can sing but 

Won't, have been known, 
By an accurate aim to be killed with 
one Stone.) 



ia:^:l — B — M 

Never Harness the Cart to the Horse ; 
Since the latter should be a la carte. 
And Birds of a Feather 
Come Flocking Together, 

Because they can't well Flock Apart. 
(You may cast any Bread on the Waters, 

I think, 
But, unless I'm mistaken, you can't 
make it Sink.) 

It is only the Fool who remarks 

That there Can't be a Fire without 
Smoke ; 
Has he never yet learned 
How the gas can be turned 

On the best incombustible coke ? 
(Would you value a man by the checks 

on his suits, 
And forget "que c'est le premier passbook 
qui Coutisf") 



Now "De Mortuis Nil Nisi Bo- 

num" is Latin, as ev'ryone owns ; 
If your domicile be 
Near a Mortuaree, 

You should always avoid throwing 

(I would further remark, if I could, 

— but I couldn't — 
That People Residing in Glasshouses 


You have heard of the Punctual Bird, 
Who was First in presenting his Bill ; 
But I pray you'll be firm, 
And remember the Worm 

Had to get up much earlier still ; 
(So that, if you can't rise in the morn- 
ing, then Don't; 
And be certain that Where there's a 
Will there's a Won't.) 


You can give a bad name to a Dog, 
And hang him by way of excuse ; 
Whereas Hunger, of course, 
Is by far the Best Sauce 

For the Gander as well as the Goose. 
(But you shouldn't judge anyone just 

by his looks, 
For a Surfeit of Broth ruins too many 

With the fact that Necessity knows 

Nine Points of the Law, you'll agree. 
There are just as Good Fish 
To be found on a Dish 

As you ever could catch in the Sea. 
(You should Look ere you Leap on a 

Weasel Asleep, 
And I've also remarked That Still 
Daughters Run Cheap.) 


The much trodden-on Lane will 'Turn, 
And a Friend is in Need of a Friend ; 
But the Wisest of Saws, 
Like the Camel's Last Straws, 

Or the Longest of Worms, have an 
So, before out of Patience a Virtue you 

A decisive farewell of these maxims 
we'll take. 



" Dorit Look a Gift horse in the Mouth" 

I KNEW a man, who lived down South; 

He thought this maxim to defy ; 
He looked a Gifthorse in the Mouth ; 

The Gifthorse bit him in the Eye ! 
And, while the steed enjoyed his bite, 
My Southern friend mislaid his sight. 

Now, had this foolish man, that day, 
Observed the Gifthorse in the Heel, 

It might have kicked his brains away, 
But that's a loss he would not feel ; 

Because you see (need I explain?) 

My Southern friend had got no brain. 

When anyone to you presents 
A poodle, or a pocketknife, 


A set of Ping-pong instruments, 

A banjo or a Lady-wife, 
'Tis churlish, as I understand, 
To grumble that they're second-hand. 

And he who termed Ingratitude 
As "worser nor a servant's tooth " 

Was evidently well imbued 

With all the elements of Truth ; 

(While he who said "Uneasy lies 

The tooth that wears a crown " was 

"One must be poor," George Eliot 
" To know the luxury of giving ; " 
So too one really should be dead 

To realize the joy of living. 
(Fd sooner be — I don't know which — 
I'd like to be alive and rich!) 


This book may be a Gifthorse too, 
And one you surely ought to prize; 

If so, I beg you, read it through 
With kindly and uncaptious eyes, 

Not grumbling because this particular 
line doesn't happen to scan, 

And this one doesn't rhyme ! 




TlS done ! We reach the final page, 
With feelings of relief, I'm certain; 
And there arrives at such a stage, 

The moment to ring down the cur- 
(This metaphor is freely taken 
From Shakespeare — or perhaps from 

The Book perused, our Future brings 
A plethora of blank to-morrows, 

When memories of Happier Things 
Will be our Sorrow's Crown of Sor- 

(I trust you recognize this line 

As being Tennyson's, not mine.) 



My verses may indeed be few, 

But are they not, to quote the poet, 

" The sweetest things that ever grew 
Beside a human door " ? I know it. 

(What an /Vmuman door would be, 

Enquire of Wordsworth, please, not 

'Twas one of my most cherished dreams 
To write a Moral Book some day; 

What says the Bard ? " The best laid 
Of Mice and Men gang aft agley ! " 

(The Bard here mentioned, by the bye, 

Is Robbie Burns, of course — not I.) 

And tho' my pen records each thought 
As swift as the phonetic Pitman, 

Morality is not my "forte," 
O Camarados ! (vide Whitman) 



•*»££ == CCCi 

And, like the Porcupine, I still 
Am forced to ply a fretful quill. 

We may be Master of our Fate, 

(As Henley was inspired to mention) 

Yet am I but the Second Mate 
Upon the ss. " Good Intention" ; 

For me the course direct is lacking — 

I have to do a deal of tacking. 

To seek for Morals here's a task 

Of which you well may be despair- 
" What has become of them ? " you ask, 

They've given us the slip — like War- 
"Look East!" said Browning once, 

and I 
Would make a similar reply. 


-rm ^— ^^=^= se» 

Look East, where in a garret drear, 
The Author works, without cessa- 
Composing verses for a mere- 
ly nominal remuneration ; 
And, while he has the strength to 

write 'em, 
Will do so still — ad infinitum. 






SEP 29 ifcg 
OEC 6 \M 

m * 2o mo 

APfi 161945 
JAN 10 1946 

Due end of WINTER Quartet* 

AUU 1 5 1980 
*k. cm. aub V80 

APR 1 3 1999 

DEC 8 71 7 3 

16 71 

1 ' 

>*« *° 

LD 21-50m-8,-32 

yB 47287 

56 4