New Collected Rhymes [7]
And then he finds a godly book Instructive company.
OFF MY GAME
"I'm of my game," the golfer said, And shook his locks in woe; "My putter never lays me dead, My drives will never go; Howe'er I swing, howe'er I stand, Results are still the same, I'm in the burn, I'm in the sand - I'm off my game!
"Oh, would that such mishaps might fall On Laidlay or Macfie, That they might toe or heel the ball, And sclaff along like me! Men hurry from me in the street, And execrate my name, Old partners shun me when we meet - I'm off my game!
"Why is it that I play at all? Let memory remind me How once I smote upon my ball, And bunkered it--BEHIND ME. I mostly slice into the whins, And my excuse is lame - It cannot cover half my sins - I'm off my game!
"I hate the sight of all my set, I grow morose as Byron; I never loved a brassey yet, And now I hate an iron. My cleek seems merely made to top, My putting's wild or tame; It's really time for me to stop - I'm off my game!"
THE PROPERTY OF A GENTLEMAN WHO HAS GIVEN UP COLLECTING
Oh blessed be the cart that takes Away my books, my curse, my clog, Blessed the auctioneer who makes Their inefficient catalogue.
Blessed the purchasers who pay However little--less were fit - Blessed the rooms, the rainy day, The knock-out and the end of it.
For I am weary of the sport, That seemed a while agone so sweet, Of Elzevirs an inch too short, And First Editions--incomplete.
Weary of crests and coats of arms, "Attributed to Padeloup" The sham Deromes have lost their charms, The things Le Gascon did not do.
I never read the catalogues Of rubbish that come thick as rooks, But most I loathe the dreary dogs That write in prose, or worse, on books.
Large paper surely cannot hide Their grammar, nor excuse their rhyme, The anecdotes that they provide Are older than the dawn of time.
Ye bores, of every shape and size, Who make a tedium of delight, Good-bye, the last of my good-byes. Good night, to all your clan good night!
* * *
Thus in a sullen fit we swore, But on mature reflection, Went on collecting more and more, And kept our old collection!
THE BALLADE OF THE SUBCONSCIOUS SELF
Who suddenly calls to our ken The knowledge that should not be there; Who charms Mr. Stead with the pen, Of the Prince of the Powers of the Air; Who makes Physiologists stare - Is he ghost, is he demon, or elf, Who fashions the dream of the fair? It is just the Subconscious Self.
He's the ally of Medicine Men Who consult the Australian bear, And 'tis he, with his lights on the fen, Who helps Jack o' Lanthorn to snare The peasants of Devon, who swear Under Commonwealth, Stuart, or Guelph, That they never had half such a scare - It is just the Subconscious Self.
It is he, from his cerebral den, Who raps upon table and chair, Who frightens the housemaid, and then Slinks back, like a thief, to his lair: 'Tis the Brownie (according to Mair) Who rattles the pots on the shelf, But the Psychical sages declare "It is just the Subconscious Self."
Prince, each of us all is a pair - The Conscious, who labours for pelf, And the other, who charmed Mr. Blair, It is just the Subconscious Self.
BALLADE OF THE OPTIMIST
Heed not the folk who sing or say In sonnet sad or sermon chill, "Alas, alack, and well-a-day, This round world's but a bitter pill." Poor porcupines of fretful quill! Sometimes we quarrel with our lot: We, too, are sad and careful; still We'd rather be alive than not.
What though we wish the cats at play Would some one else's garden till; Though Sophonisba drop the tray And all our worshipped Worcester spill, Though neighbours "practise" loud and shrill, Though May be cold and June be hot, Though April freeze and August grill, We'd rather be alive than not.
And, sometimes on a summer's day To self and every mortal ill We give the slip, we steal away, To walk beside some sedgy rill: The darkening years, the cares that kill, A little while are well forgot; When deep in broom upon the hill, We'd rather be alive than not.
Pistol, with oaths
OFF MY GAME
"I'm of my game," the golfer said, And shook his locks in woe; "My putter never lays me dead, My drives will never go; Howe'er I swing, howe'er I stand, Results are still the same, I'm in the burn, I'm in the sand - I'm off my game!
"Oh, would that such mishaps might fall On Laidlay or Macfie, That they might toe or heel the ball, And sclaff along like me! Men hurry from me in the street, And execrate my name, Old partners shun me when we meet - I'm off my game!
"Why is it that I play at all? Let memory remind me How once I smote upon my ball, And bunkered it--BEHIND ME. I mostly slice into the whins, And my excuse is lame - It cannot cover half my sins - I'm off my game!
"I hate the sight of all my set, I grow morose as Byron; I never loved a brassey yet, And now I hate an iron. My cleek seems merely made to top, My putting's wild or tame; It's really time for me to stop - I'm off my game!"
THE PROPERTY OF A GENTLEMAN WHO HAS GIVEN UP COLLECTING
Oh blessed be the cart that takes Away my books, my curse, my clog, Blessed the auctioneer who makes Their inefficient catalogue.
Blessed the purchasers who pay However little--less were fit - Blessed the rooms, the rainy day, The knock-out and the end of it.
For I am weary of the sport, That seemed a while agone so sweet, Of Elzevirs an inch too short, And First Editions--incomplete.
Weary of crests and coats of arms, "Attributed to Padeloup" The sham Deromes have lost their charms, The things Le Gascon did not do.
I never read the catalogues Of rubbish that come thick as rooks, But most I loathe the dreary dogs That write in prose, or worse, on books.
Large paper surely cannot hide Their grammar, nor excuse their rhyme, The anecdotes that they provide Are older than the dawn of time.
Ye bores, of every shape and size, Who make a tedium of delight, Good-bye, the last of my good-byes. Good night, to all your clan good night!
* * *
Thus in a sullen fit we swore, But on mature reflection, Went on collecting more and more, And kept our old collection!
THE BALLADE OF THE SUBCONSCIOUS SELF
Who suddenly calls to our ken The knowledge that should not be there; Who charms Mr. Stead with the pen, Of the Prince of the Powers of the Air; Who makes Physiologists stare - Is he ghost, is he demon, or elf, Who fashions the dream of the fair? It is just the Subconscious Self.
He's the ally of Medicine Men Who consult the Australian bear, And 'tis he, with his lights on the fen, Who helps Jack o' Lanthorn to snare The peasants of Devon, who swear Under Commonwealth, Stuart, or Guelph, That they never had half such a scare - It is just the Subconscious Self.
It is he, from his cerebral den, Who raps upon table and chair, Who frightens the housemaid, and then Slinks back, like a thief, to his lair: 'Tis the Brownie (according to Mair) Who rattles the pots on the shelf, But the Psychical sages declare "It is just the Subconscious Self."
Prince, each of us all is a pair - The Conscious, who labours for pelf, And the other, who charmed Mr. Blair, It is just the Subconscious Self.
BALLADE OF THE OPTIMIST
Heed not the folk who sing or say In sonnet sad or sermon chill, "Alas, alack, and well-a-day, This round world's but a bitter pill." Poor porcupines of fretful quill! Sometimes we quarrel with our lot: We, too, are sad and careful; still We'd rather be alive than not.
What though we wish the cats at play Would some one else's garden till; Though Sophonisba drop the tray And all our worshipped Worcester spill, Though neighbours "practise" loud and shrill, Though May be cold and June be hot, Though April freeze and August grill, We'd rather be alive than not.
And, sometimes on a summer's day To self and every mortal ill We give the slip, we steal away, To walk beside some sedgy rill: The darkening years, the cares that kill, A little while are well forgot; When deep in broom upon the hill, We'd rather be alive than not.
Pistol, with oaths