ESSAYS IN OLD FRENCH FORMS |
  A BALLADE OF PROTEST[4] ( To the address of Master Rudyard Kipling, Poetaster) For long, unjoyed, we've heard you sing Of politics and army bills, Of money-lust and cricketing, Of clothes and fear and other things; Meanwhile the palm-trees and the hills Have lacked a bard to voice their lay; Poet, ere time your lyre string stills, Sing us again of Mandalay! Unsung the East lies glimmering, Unsung the palm trees toss their frills, Unsung the seas their splendors fling, The while you prate of laws and tills. Each man his destiny fulfills; Can it be yours to loose and stray; In sophist garb to waste your quills?— Sing us again of Mandalay! Sing us again in rhymes that ring, In Master-Voice that lives and thrills. Sing us again of wind and wing, Of temple bells and jungle thrills; And if your Pegasus e'er wills To lead you down some other way, Go bind him in his olden thills— Sing us again of Mandalay! Master, regard the plaint we bring, And hearken to the prayer we pray. Lay down your law and sermoning— Sing us again of Mandalay!
A FRIVOLOUS RONDEAU “I co'd reherse A lyric verse.”—The Hesperides. A lyric verse I'll make for you, Fair damsel that the many woo, 'Twill be a sonnet on your fan— That aid to love from quaint Japan— And “true” will rhyme with “eyes of blue.” Ah! me, if you but only knew The toil of setting out to hew From words—as I shall try to do— A lyric verse. Fleet metric ghosts I must pursue, And dim rhyme apparitions, too— But yet, 'tis joyfully I scan, And reckon rhymes and think and plan For there's no cheaper present than A lyric verse. THE RHYMES OF MISTRESS DOROTHY Roundel— Bemauled by ev'ry hurrying churl And deafened by the city's brawl, A helm-less craft I helpless swirl Adown the street. With battered hat I trip and sprawl And like a toy tee-to-tum swirl, To end my strugglings with a fall— But what care I for knock and whirl?— Egad! I heed them not at all; For here comes Dolly—sweetheart girl!— Adown the street! Triolet— The light that lies in Dolly's eyes Is sun and moon and stars to me; It dims the splendor of the skies— The light that lies in Dolly's eyes— And me-ward shining, testifies That Dolly's mine, fore'er to be— The light that lies in Dolly's eyes Is sun and moon and stars to me! Roundelay— Oh, Dolly is my treasury— What more of wealth could I desire? Her lips are rubies set for me, And there between (sweet property!) A string of pearls to smiles conspire; With Dolly as my treasury, What more of wealth could I desire? And when have men of alchemy Yet dreamed of gems like those I see In Dolly's eyes, as flashing fire, They bid the envious world admire?— Oh, Dolly is my treasury! What more of wealth could I desire? And then her hair!—there cannot be Such gold beyond the Purple Sea As this of mine—unpriced and free! Oh, Dolly is my treasury, My sweetheart and my heart's desire! A FEW LINES Few roses like your cheeks are red, Few lilies like your brow are fair; Few vassals like your slave are led, Few roses like your cheeks are red, Few dangers like your frown I dread; Few rubies to your lips compare, Few roses like your cheeks are red, Few lilies like your brow are fair. A RONDEAU OF TWO HOURS From four to six milady fair Is chic and sweet and debonair, For then it is, with smiles and tea, She fills the chappy mob with glee (The jays but come to drink and stare). A rose is nestled in her hair, Like Cupid lurking in his lair— Few of the jays remain heart free From four to six. Oh let them come—I would not care If all the men on earth were there; For when they go she smiles on me, And, just because she loves me, she Makes all the ringers take their share From four to six. AN ANTE-CHRISTMAS RONDEAU “'Tis a sad story, mates.”—Marie Corelli. It's up to me—the winds are chill And snow clouds drift from o'er the hill, At dawn the rime is on the grass, At five o'clock we light the gas, And long gone is the daffodil. Jack Frost draws flowers upon the glass And blasts the growing ones—alas! Whene'er he comes to scar and kill, It's up to me. I run not in the croaker class, But when I see the autumn pass, Of crushing woes I have my fill— To buy a Christmas gift for Jill A horde of gold I must amass— It's up to me. ROUNDEL If love were all and we could cheat All gods but Cupid of their due, Our joy in life would be complete. We'd only live that we might woo, (Instead, as now, that we might eat,) And ev'ry lover would be true,— If love were all. Yet, if we found our bread and meat In kisses it would please but few, Soon life would grow a cloying sweet, If love were all. IN VAUDEVILLE In vaudeville the elder jest Remains the one that's loved the best; For 'tis the custom of the stage To venerate and honor age And look upon the old as blest. Originality's a pest That artist's labor hard to best— Conservatism is the rage In vaudeville. The artist's arms are here expressed: A slapstick argent as a crest (It is an ancient heritage), A seltzer siphon gules—the wage Of newness is a lengthy rest In vaudeville. THE RONDEAU OF RICHES If I were rich and had a store Of gold doubloons and louis d'or— A treasure for a pirate crew— Then I would spend it all for you— My heart's delight and conqueror! About your feet upon the floor, Ten thousand rubies I would pour— Regardless of expense, I'd woo If I were rich. But as I'm not, I can but soar Mid fancy's heights and ponder o'er The things that I would like to do; And as I pass them in review It strikes me that you'd love me more If I were rich. IN EATING SOUP In eating soup, it's always well To make an effort to excel The unregenerate who sop With bread the last surviving drop As if to them but one befell. And if it burn you do not yell, Or stamp or storm or say “Oh!——well!”— From social grandeur you may flop In eating soup. And if the appetizing smell Upon you cast a witch's spell, To drain your plate pray do not stop, And please, I pray you, do not slop! A gurgling sound's a social knell In eating soup. LOVE AND THE ROSE The thorn lives but to shield the rose; Coquetry may but shelter love! (This consolation Hope bestows). The thorn lives but to shield the rose; Though blood from many a thorn wound flows I'll pluck the rose that blows above— The thorn lives but to shield the rose, Coquetry may but shelter love! Love me more or not at all, Half a rose is less than none; Hear the wretch you hold in thrall! Love me more or not at all! Dilletante love will pall, I would have you wholly won;— Love me more or not at all; Half a rose is less than none! A RONDEAU OF STATESMANSHIP In politics it's funny how A man may tell you one thing now And say tomorrow that he meant To voice a different sentiment And vow a very different vow. The writ and spoken laws allow Each individual to endow His words with underground intent In politics. Thus he who leads in verbal prow- Ness sports the laurel on his brow— So if you wish to represent The acme of the eminent, Learning lying ere you make your bow In politics.
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