I don't know about
you, but light verse - or any kind of verse - is a thing I can take or leave.
I don't know about
you, but light verse - or any kind of verse - is a thing I can take or leave.
But Wodehouse is Wodehouse. Even when he's not at his best, there's a certain something. On top of that, there's the smell of the past. I just like the feel of them. You can tell a lot about people by understanding what makes them laugh, and Punch opens up 1903 far more effectively than any history textbook.
Hm, well, I think that sounds pompous, but who cares?
The picture is not by Wodehouse of course. There were several good ones in the Punch Volume. Click here to download a zipped file containing my favourites.
( A Legend.)
(How many a doctor or architect must own that his professional life consisted of two periods - one in which he was too young to be trusted, the other in which he was to old to be efficient - Times leading article.)
Oh, read my melancholy rhyme,
Peruse my mournful ditty.
Two men there are dwelt upon a time
Within a certain City.
Both were distinctly men of parts,
Well versed in their respective arts.
To fell diseases of the kind
That everyone who can shuns,
One of the pair had turned his mind,
The others forte was mansions.
They were, as you'd no doubt expect,
A doctor and an architect .
The latter, when but 29,
Planned a titanic building,
A house of wonderful design,
Or marble, stone, and gilding.
Said he: 'My fortunes made, I wis,
Men can't resist a thing like this.'
With eager hope his heart beat high,
He took his plans up boldly,
And thrust them in the public eye:
The public viewed them coldly.
'pray take that rubbish right away,
You're far too young for us,'said they.
The doctor next, a gifted man,
His brain pan teemed with gumption,
Discovered quite a novel plan
For dealing with consumption,
By treating each consumptive
With hard-boiled eggs last thing at night.
He told the public of is scheme,
But met with stern denial.
'Absurd,' said they, 'we shouldn't dream
Of giving it a trial.
Apparently you quite forget
That you are barely 30 yet.'
The years rolled on. The doctor's schemes
Soared annually higher.
His fellow sufferer covered reams
With plans that found no buyer.
The public eyed with gentle smiles
These energetic juveniles.
More years rolled on. The hapless pair
Found life no whit the gayer.
The medico's luxuriant hair
Grew gradually greyer.
( The architects was nearly white,
Through sitting up too late at night.)
And then - the public changed their mood!
Their hearts began to soften.
They felt the doctor's cures were good -
( They'd had that feeling often ).
They also chanced to recollect
The merits of the architect.
Come, plan us mansions, bring us pills.'
Their cry no answer rouses.
No one alleviates their ills,
No one designs them houses.
Upon inquiry it appears
Each has been dead for several years.
Gone! Is it possible?
Thus do the years
Steal from us all we could wish to retain.
All that is pleasant in life disappears,
Only the sorrows and worries remain.
What though a Church on the spot where it stood,
Methodist Church, be erected instead?
What that the object's undoubtedly good?
Weep, for the royal aquarium's dead.
Many's the time I have pored o'er its sights,
Sights of which I at least could not tire;
Watched on a dozen consecutive nights
Blondin the great as he strode on the wire.
Here was variety time could not stale;
Oft and again have I eagerly run.
Now to set eyes on the Labrador Whale,
Now on the lady they shot from a gun.
Here I marked Slavin's and Sullivan's skill,
Notable experts in 'counter' and 'fib,'
Watched with a relish their world famous 'mill,'
Cheered when the caestus came home on a rib.
Here, too, I learned that to some kangaroos
Skill has been given to Spar with hoof.
Here of an evening I quaked in my shoes,
Watching Miss Luker dive down from the roof.
Hobson his seal, Pongo's Simian face,
Zaeo (the pain of a shocked LCC.),
Sandow the feminine bicycle race -
These were the sights that ecstaticised me.
Here saw I Roberts the King of the cue,
Gazed on him daily, nor found it a bore,
Envied an eye so unerringly true.
Ah, that such visions shall charm me no more!
Still, when the logs are heaped cheerily high
And in the chimney is howling the blast,
A and when the beaker stands handily by,
I shall revisit the scenes of the past,
Muse o'er a pipe of the days that are dead,
Dream that once more I am able to scan
Closely the bird with the duplicate head,
Live once again with the petrified man.
Sir, Mr Punch, the following is true.
Peruse my story written in blank verse,
For such tragic a metre seems to me,
Peculiarly adapted to the subject.
From earliest years had I been singled out,
As one whose talents lean to feats of arms,
In view of which to Sandhurst I repaired,
Whence , in the second year from my arrival,
Steeped to the eyes in military lore,
I passed with honour.
Straightway did I speed
To the War Office, all agog to learn
The date when I might look to be gazetted.
Quickly arriving, I produced my card,
And to the nearest minion thus.' good Sir,
In me a budding Kitchener you see,
Who, at your leisure, would be glad to learn
The date when he made a look to be gazetted.'
'They will tell you,' quoth the nave,' at MS one.
' To MS one, whatever that might make any,
I turned my steps. And, on arriving,'
Sir, To be succinct, I pant to ascertain
The date when I may look to be gazetted.'
'Ah,' said the minion blandly,
'I should think Colonel O'Mauser is the man you want.
He'll give you information on any topic.
Call, therefore, on this noted son of Mars
At Number 37, Bayonet Buildings
Pall Mall.' for if
I think him kindly, and departed.
Colonel O'Mauser, I regret to say,
Was out.
His servant, having heard my errand,
Genially bade me ' ask at MS two.'
Bracing myself together (for by now
Faint did I feel with hunger and fatigue),
I called at MS two, to be directed
With some asperity to Cox's Bank,
Where, I was told, I might expect to find
Major de Forpoint-Sevening's de address.
He, they surmised, could tell me in a trice
The date when I might look to be gazetted.
Shrewd man, the Major.
Cox's Bank was shut.
I tried to find him the Foreign Office
Without success. And when a person there
Gave me instructions, which, I saw, would lead
Once more by devious routes to MS one,
I hailed a passing hansom, and returned,
Full of strange oaths, to my ancestral home -
And to this day, for all I've toiled and fretted,
I've no idea when I'm to be gazetted.
After a pause Alice began,' well, they were both very unpleasant characters
-'
'De Mortuis -' said Tweedledee reprovingly.
'I don't know what that means,' said Alice.
'You don't know much,' said Tweedledum, 'and that's a fact.'
Alice did not all like the tone of this remark, and thought it would be as well
to introduce some other subject of conversation.
'If you have really finished -? 'She began, as politely as she could.
'No how. And you very much for asking,' said Tweedledum.
'So much obliged,' added Tweedledee.' There are four more verses.'
He smiled gently, and began again: -
'Oh Carpenter,' the walrus said,
'Life's joys soon disappear
There seem to be no oysters left,
We swept the table clear.'
The Carpenter said nothing but
'I'm feeling precious queer.'
'Oh, I'm so glad!' Said Alice.
'Oh carpenter,' the walrus said,
'I sympathise with you.
You say that you feel rather odd,
I doubt not that you do,
For, curious as it may appear,
I feel peculiar, too.'
'The time has come,' the walrus said,
'To talk of doctors' bills,
Of pulses up to fever height,
Of medicine and pills.
I would not for the World alarm,
But - shall we make our wills?'
'Oh oysters!' Moaned the Carpenter,
And that was all he said,
As on the coolest piece of rock
He laid his aching head.
The walrus, too, refrained from speech,
He was already dead.
'And did the Carpenter get well?' asked Alice.
'No how,' said Tweedledum.
'Contrariwise,' said Tweedledee; 'he died.'
'Well,' said Alice, 'thank you very much, but I don't think the last four verses
nearly so good as the others.'
'Ah.' Said Tweedledee,' perhaps not. But they're much truer. You see, those
oysters were near the isthmus of sewage.'
('Sherlock Holmes' is to reappear in the 'Strand' magazine.)
Air -'Archie' in the 'toreador'
Oh, Sherlock Holmes lay hidden more than half a dozen years.
He left his loving London in a whirl of doubts and fears.
For we thought a wicked party
Of the name of Moriarty
Had dispatched him (in a manner fit to freeze one).
They grappled on a cliff top, on a ledge six inches wide;
We deemed his chances flimsy when he vanished o'er the side.
But the latest news is
That he merely got some bruises.
If there is a man who's hard to kill, why he's one.
0 Sherlock, Sherlock, he's in town again,
That Prince of perspicacity, that monument of brain.
It seems he wasn't hurt at all
By tumbling down the waterfall.
That sort of thing is fun to Sherlock.
When Sherlock left his native Strand, such groans were seldom heard;
With sobs the public's frame was rent; with tears its eyes were blurred.
But the optimists reflected
That he might be resurrected:
It formed our only theme of conversation.
We asked each other, would he be? and if so, how and where?
We went about her duties with a less dejected air.
And they say that a suggestion
Of a parliamentary question
Was received with marked approval by the nation.
And Sherlock, Sherlock, he's in town again,
Sir Conan has discovered him, and offers to explain.
The explanation may be thin,
But bless you! We don't care a pin,
If he will but give us back our Sherlock.
The burglar grains and lays aside his jemmy, keys, and drill;
The enterprising murderer proceeds to make his will;
The fraud - promoting jobber
Feels convinced that those who rob err;
The felon finds no balm by in his employment.
The forger and the swindler start up shrieking in their sleep;
No longer on his mother does the Coster gaily leap;
The Mile-end sportsman's ceases
To kick passers-by to pieces,
Or does it with diminishing enjoyment.
For the Sherlock, Sherlock, he's in town again,
That Prince of perspicacity, that monument to brain.
The world of crime has got the Blues,
For Sherlock's out and after clues,
And everything's a clue to Sherlock.
The weather (in the past
Emphatically bitter),
Seems to have changed a last.
The birds begin to twitter.
The rivers, decked with sedge,
In lavish streams are flowing.
On every side the veg -
-etables, too, are growing.
The young man's fancy turns
In almost all directions;
Promiscuously burns
The lamp of his affections.
Approaches now the close
Of rugby and of soccer';
The football jersey goes
Back to its native locker.
To make rough meadows flat
The cricketer is toiling;
He scans his favourite bat,
In case the thing wants oiling.
The Bard begins to tear
His hyacanthine tresses,
Or polishes with care
Last year's returned MSS
The farmer once again -
I learned from one who knows it -
Takes quantities of grain,
And walks about and sows it.
Dear friends, who hear my Song,
Of brain decay acquit me.
That explanation's wrong -
I'll make it clear. Permit me.
The reason why I sing,
The point at which and driving,
Is simply this: that spring
Is rapidly arriving.
Since earth was first created,
Since time began to fly,
No friends were e'er so mated,
So firm as Jones and I.
Since primal man was fashioned
To people ice and stones,
No pair, I ween, had ever been
Such chums as I and Jones
In fair and foulest weather,
Beginning when but boys,
We faced our woes together,
We shared each other's joys.
Together, sad or merry,
We acted hand-in-glove,
Until -'twas careless, very -
I chanced to fall in love.
The ladies points to touch on,
Her name was Julia White,
Her lineage high, her scutcheon
Untarnished; manners, bright;
Complexion, soft and creamy;
Her hair, of golden hue;
Her eyes, in aspect, dreamy,
In colour, greyish blue.
For her I sighed, I panted;
I saw her in my dreams;
I vowed, protested, ranted;
I sent her chocolate creams.
Until methought one morning
I seemed to hear a voice,
A still, small voice of warning:
'Does Jones approve my choice?'
To Jones of my affection
I spoke that very night.
If he had no objection,
A said I'd wed Miss White.
I asked him for his blessing,
But, turning rather blue,
He said: 'it's most distressing,
But I adore her, too.'
'Then, Jones,' I answered, sobbing,
'My wooing's at an end.
I couldn't think of robbing
My best, my only friend.
The notion makes me furious -
I'd much prefer to die.'
'Perhaps you'll think it curious,'
Said Jones, 'but so should I.'
Nor he nor I would falter
In our resolve one jot.
I bade him seek the altar,
He vowed that he would not.
'She's yours, our old fellow.
Make her As happy as you can.'
'Not so,' said I, 'you take her -
You're lucky man.'
And length - the situation
Had lasted now a year -
I had an inspiration,
Which seemed to make things clear.
'Supposing,' I suggested,
'We ask Miss White to choose?
I should be interested
To hear her private views.
'Perhaps she has a preference -
I know it sounds absurd -
But I submit, with deference,
That she might well be heard.
In clear, commercial diction
The case in point will state,
Disclose the cause of friction,
And leave the rest to Fate.'
We did, and on the Morrow
The postman brought us news.
Miss White expressed her sorrow
At having to refuse.
Of all her many reasons
This seemed to me the pith:
Six months before (or rather more)
She'd married Mr Smith.
('Captain Kettle, 'now the Reverend Sir Owen Kettle, KCB., has definitely retired into private life, gravely regretted by all who knew him.)
Latter - day Drake (with a liberal dash off the late lamented Kidd),
Long have I followed your bright career, thrilled at the deed you did;
Long have I watched you pace your bridge, a resolute, daring, smart;
You're a friend in every mood - and now we have got to part.
A long I helped you range the globe through many a varied scene,
Through troublous times afloat and ashore, keeping your ticket clean.
From Floridan Creek to the Congo's stream, in a hundred steering frays,
He taught me all I shall ever know of the sea and the sailor's ways.
Ah, the salt sea smell, and the hiss of the foam, and the throb of the whirring
screw!
Oft have we battled side-by-side with a villainous cutthroat crew;
And now with the gibe and an acid sneer, and now with a well-judged shot,
Taught them exactly who was who, precisely what was what.
To run a blockade or poach a pearl - those with jobs for us;
Our motto a maximum of work with a minimum of fuss.
The foe might rage or the engines fail, the ship might break in two,
With you at my side I was undismayed; I knew you would see me through.
You were not built for the joys of peace your business is on the sea;
The bridge of a tramp is the place for you, my Reverend KCB.
You were not born to be slothful web, sleek, a pair of tax and rate.
Leave such a life to a lesser men - yours is a nobler fate.
Out once more in your rakish craft, travel the wide world through;
Girdle the earth from shore to shore, from China to Peru.
Where glittering icebergs rear their peaks, where the tropical sun-dart flames,
Let the welkin ring with your pistol's crack, let it roar with your crisp 'By
James!'
I met him in a crowd;
As if with care 'twas weighted,
His shapely back was bowed,
His brow was corrugated.
I asked him, 'Why so pale?
What grief your soul has cankered?'
And gleaned his painful tale
Over a friendly tankard.
'Once,' the sad wight began,
'I knew not what the blues meant,
I was a genial man,
And never shirked amusement.
I shot, I wrote, I rinked,
I trod the mazy measure,
My life, to be succinct,
Was one long round of pleasure.
'In those delightful days
I do not mind confessing
That, if I had a craze,
It was for faultless dressing.
One night - it serves to show
How Labor Omnia Vincit-
I tied a perfect bow;
I've not been happy since it.
'I worked with watchful eye,
With fingers swift but wary,
It seemed a decent tie,
But not extraordinary.
But when at length I gazed,
To put the final clip in,
I staggered back amazed,
Ejaculating 'Rippin'!'
'Oh, had I but the pen
That serves the inspired poet,
I'd try to picture then,
With proper force and glow, it.
The billowy waves of white,
The folds, the spick-and-span knot;
Were I a Bard, I might -
But as it is, I cannot.
'Suffice it to observe
That on minute inspection
It showed in every curve
The hallmark of perfection.
The sort of tie which you
When wrapped in sweetest sleep
Occasionally view;
A tie to mark an epoch.
'That night no peer I owned,
I carried all before me.
Society'- he moaned -
'United to adore me.
Whenever I passed by,
Men stopped their conversation,
Drank in that Perfect Tie
In silent adoration.
'Since then the striking feat
(Such dreams the ambitious male lure)
I have striven to repeat.
Result: completest failure.
Though toiling, as I say,
As much as blood and flesh'll,
The bows I tie today
Are good, but nothing special.
'So now my fellow man
I shun, no matter who 'tis.
As far as mortal can,
I cut my social duties.
I seldom eat or rest,
I'm gloomy, haggard, mirthless.
To one who's known the best,
All other things are worthless.'
The days are growing short and cold;
Approaches autumn, ay and chill Yule:
The latest bowler now has bowled
His latest devastating pillule.
Gone is the crease, gone the 'pegs';
The bungling fieldsmen now no more errs
By letting balls go through his legs
And giving batsman needless fourers.
Things of the past are drive and cut,
With which erstwhile we would astound men;
The gay Pavilion's doors are shut;
The turf is given up to groundmen;
Gone is the beautiful length-ball,
Gone, too, the batsman who would snick it;
Silent his partner's cheery call.
Football usurps the place of cricket.
Now, as incessantly it pours,
And each succeeding days seems bleaker,
The Cricketer remains indoors,
And quaffs mayhap the warming beaker.
Without, the scrummage heaves and slips;
Not his to play the muddy oaf.
A Well-seasoned pipe between his lips,
He reads his Wisden on the sofa.
Or, if in vein for a gentle toil,
Before he seeks a well-earned pillow,
He takes a flask of linseed oil
And tends his much enduring willow,
Feeling the while, what time he drops
The luscious fluid by degrees on,
Given half volleys and long hops,
How nobly it would drive next season!
Then to his couch, to dream till day
Of Fifties when the pitch was sticky,
Of bowling crisply 'put away,'
Though it was manifestly tricky,
Of umpires, confident appeals,
Hot shots at point, mid-off, and cover,
Of cricket lunches (Perfect meals!): -
Such dreams attend a cricket lover.
And, though the streets be deep in snow,
Though slippery pavements make him stumble,
Though rain descends, though blizzards blow,
It matters not: he scorns to grumble.
What if it lightens, thunders, hails,
And common men grow daily glummer,
In him contentment never fails;
To such a man it's always summer.
Look, I thought I'd better warn you: I seriously considered bowdlerising this. Then I decided not to. After all, you've got to remember this is written in 1903 and it was a very different world then. Think of it as a sort of light verse fossil. Anyway, we don't look to our comic novelists for political enlightenment, (Thank God!). The point is, don't blow a gasket when you read this and start flaming me.
(Every summer at a 'song spotter' is sent the seaside by the music publishing firms. His duties are to listen to all the songs sung by the nigger minstrels, and to note which succeed.)
He stood on the beach with a haggard air,
As the niggers sang their lays;
And I asked him the cause of his look of care
(I had marked it on previous days).
'Cheer up,' I said.'Oh, never despair;
Perchance I may heal your wrongs.'
'Alas,' said he, 'but it cannot be,
For - shudder! - I'm spotting songs.'
'Or ever the in the earliest shrimp is snared
In the earliest shrimper's net,
Or ever the primal bather's bared,
Or the first toy yacht upset,
Or ever the lodgers start-up, scared
At the roar of the breakfast gongs,
Here on the Strand I take my stand
For the purpose of spotting songs.
'Others may 'scape to the gay hotel,
To the desolate cliffs may flee,
May, if they fear not wave nor swell,
Sail on the songless sea,
Stroll inland with a chosen belle,
Far from the vocal throngs -
I must stay through the livelong day,
My mission is spotting songs.
'That is the reason why I'm depressed,
Silent and grim and sad;
Ne'er may I fly from the noisome pest
(It's driving me nearly mad).
Never on earth shall I find that rest
For which my whole soul longs;
Evermore must I haunt this shore
For the purpose of spotting songs.'