SHORT BALLADE AND POSTSCRIPT ON CONSOLS AND BOERS I Gigantic daughter of the West
(The phrase is Tennysonian), who
From this unconquerable breast
The vigorous milk of Freedom drew
—We gave it freely—shall the crest
Of Empire in your keeping true,
Shall England—I forget the rest,
But Consols are at 82.
II Now why should anyone invest,
As even City people do
(His Lordship did among the rest),
When stocks—but what is that to you?
And then, who ever could have guessed
About the guns—and horses too!—
Besides, they knew their business best,
And Consols are at 82.
III It serves no purpose to protest,
It isn’t manners to halloo
About the way the thing was messed—
Or vaguely call a man a Jew.
A gentleman who cannot jest
Remarked that we should muddle through
(The continent was much impressed),
And Consols are at 82.
Envoi. And, Botha lay at Pilgrim’s Rest
And Myberg in the Great Karroo
(A desert to the south and west),
And Consols are at 82.
Postscript. Permit me—if you do not mind—
To add it would be screaming fun
If, after printing this, I find
Them after all at 81.
Or 70 or 63,
Or 55 or 44,
Or 39 and going free,
Or 28—or even more.
No matter—take no more advice
From doubtful and intriguing men.
Refuse the stuff at any price,
And slowly watch them fall to 10.
Meanwhile I feel a certain zest
In writing once again the new
Refrain that all is for the best,
And Consols are at 82.
Last Envoi. Prince, you and I were barely thirty-three,
And now I muse and wonder if it’s true,
That you were you and I myself was me,
And 3 per cents were really 82!
BALLADE OF THE UNANSWERED QUESTION I What dwelling hath Sir Harland Pott
That died of drinking in Bungay?
Nathaniel Goacher who was shot
Towards the end of Malplaquet?
The only thing that we can say,
(The only thing that has been said)
About these gentlemen is, “Nay!
But where are the unanswering dead”
II Lord Bumplepuppy, too, that got
The knock from Messrs Dawkins’ dray?
And Jonas, whom the Cachalot
Begulphed in Esdraelon Bay?
The Calvinistic John McKay,
Who argued till his nostrils bled,
And dropped in apoplexy? Nay!
But where are the unanswering dead?
III And Heliodorus too, that hot
Defender of the Roman sway;
And He, the author of the “Tot
Mercedes dant VictoriÆ,”
And all the armoured squadrons gay
That ever glory nourishÈd
In all the world’s high charges? Nay!
But where are the unanswering dead?
Envoi Prince, have you ever learnt to pray
Upon your knees beside your bed?
You miserable waxwork? Nay!
But where are the unanswering dead?
BALLADE TO OUR LADY OF CZESTOCHOWA I Lady and Queen and Mystery manifold
And very Regent of the untroubled sky,
Whom in a dream St Hilda did behold
And heard a woodland music passing by:
You shall receive me when the clouds are high
With evening and the sheep attain the fold.
This is the faith that I have held and hold,
And this is that in which I mean to die.
II Steep are the seas and savaging and cold
In broken waters terrible to try;
And vast against the winter night the wold,
And harbourless for any sail to lie.
But you shall lead me to the lights, and I
Shall hymn you in a harbour story told.
This is the faith that I have held and hold,
And this is that in which I mean to die.
III Help of the half-defeated, House of gold,
Shrine of the Sword, and Tower of Ivory;
Splendour apart, supreme and aureoled,
The Battler’s vision and the World’s reply.
You shall restore me, O my last Ally,
To vengeance and the glories of the bold.
This is the faith that I have held and hold,
And this is that in which I mean to die.
Envoi Prince of the degradations, bought and sold,
These verses, written in your crumbling sty,
Proclaim the faith that I have held and hold
And publish that in which I mean to die.
BALLADE OF HELL AND OF MRS ROEBECK I I’m going out to dine at Gray’s
With Bertie Morden, Charles and Kit,
And Manderly who never pays,
And Jane who wins in spite of it,
And Algernon who won’t admit
The truth about his curious hair
And teeth that very nearly fit:—
And Mrs Roebeck will be there.
II And then to-morrow someone says
That someone else has made a hit
In one of Mister Twister’s plays.
And off we go to yawn at it;
And when it’s petered out we quit
For number 20, Taunton Square,
And smoke, and drink, and dance a bit:—
And Mrs Roebeck will be there.
III
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