Harry Graham
Verse and Worse
Published by Good Press, 2022
goodpress@okpublishing.info
EAN 4064066220693
Table of Contents
FOREWORD
PART I
THE BABY'S BAEDEKER
I
ABROAD
II
UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
III
GREAT BRITAIN
IV
SCOTLAND
V
IRELAND
VI
WALES
VII
CHINA
VIII
FRANCE
IX
GERMANY
X
HOLLAND
XI
ICELAND
XII
ITALY
XIII
JAPAN
XIV
PORTUGAL
XV
RUSSIA
XVI
SPAIN
XVII
SWITZERLAND
XVIII
TURKEY
XIX
DREAMLAND
XX
STAGELAND
XXI
LOVERLAND
XXII
HOMELAND
PART II
CHILDISH COMPLAINTS AND OTHER RUTHLESS RHYMES
CHILDISH COMPLAINTS
PRELUDE
CHILDISH COMPLAINTS
No. 1 (Appendicitis)
No. 2. (Whooping-cough)
No. 3. (Measles)
No. 4. (Adenoids)
No. 5. (Croup)
RUTHLESS RHYMES
I MOTHER-WIT
II UNCLE JOE
III AUNT ELIZA
IV ABSENT-MINDEDNESS
V JOHN
VI BABY
VII THE CAT
PART III PERVERTED PROVERBS
I 'VIRTUE IS ITS OWN REWARD'
II 'ENOUGH IS AS GOOD AS A FEAST'
III 'DON'T BUY A PIG IN A POKE'
IV 'LEARN TO TAKE THINGS EASILY'
V 'A ROLLING STONE GATHERS NO MOSS'
VI 'IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND'
VII 'A BAD WORKMAN COMPLAINS OF HIS TOOLS'
VIII 'DON'T LOOK A GIFT-HORSE IN THE MOUTH'
IX POTPOURRI
PART IV OTHER VERSES
BILL
THE LEGEND OF THE AUTHOR
THE MOTRIOT
THE BALLAD OF THE ARTIST
THE BALLAD OF PING-PONG
THE PESSIMIST
THE PLACE WHERE THE OLD CLEEK BROKE
THE HOMES OF LONDON
THE HAPPIEST LAND
A LONDON INVOLUNTARY
BLUEBEARD
'THE WOMAN WITH THE DEAD SOLES'
ROSEMARY
PORTKNOCKIE'S PORTER
THE BALLAD OF THE LITTLE JINGLANDER
AFTWORD
ENVOI
BY THE SAME AUTHOR.
Fiscal Ballads.
Ruthless Rhymes for Heartless Homes.
Ballads of the Boer War.
Misrepresentative Men.
SELECTIONS FROM MR. EDWARD ARNOLD'S LIST OF NEW AND RECENT BOOKS.
THE LIFE AND TIMES OF THE RIGHT HON. CECIL JOHN RHODES.
THE REMINISCENCES OF ADMIRAL MONTAGU.
NOVELS.
BOOKS ON COUNTRY LIFE.
BOOKS OF TRAVEL.
THE COTTAGE HOMES OF ENGLAND.
A HISTORY OF THE LONDON HOSPITAL.
THE BOOK OF WINTER SPORTS.
FOREWORD
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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 realising 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'?
Correct me, Mr. Andrew Lang!)
O 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.)
I 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 Aesop's or La Fontaine's Fable,
From Doyle's or Hemans' 'Stately Ho(l)mes,'
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, like him, a syndicate,
Which publishers would put their trust in;
A Walter Pater up-to-date,
Or flippant scholar like Augustine;
With pen as light as lark or squirrel,
I'd love to kipple, pate and birrell.
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;
Unrecognised, 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. Arnold thinks so, too).
PART I
THE BABY'S BAEDEKER
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An International Guide-Book for the young of all ages;
peculiarly adapted to the wants of first and second Childhood.
I
ABROAD
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Abroad is where we tourists spend,
In divers unalluring ways,
The brief occasional week-end,
Or annual Easter holidays;
And earn the (not ill-founded) charge
Of being lunatics at large.
Abroad, we lose our self-respect;
Wear whiskers; let our teeth protrude;
Consider any garb correct,
And no display of temper rude;
Descending, when we cross the foam,
To depths we dare not plumb at home.
(Small wonder that the natives gaze,
With hostile eyes, at foreign freaks,
Who patronise their Passion-plays,
In lemon-coloured chessboard breeks;
An op'ra-glass about each neck,
And on each head a cap of check.)
Abroad, where needy younger sons,
When void the parent's treasure-chest,
Take refuge from insistent duns,
At urgent relatives' request;
To live upon their slender wits,
Or sums some maiden-aunt remits.
Abroad, whence (with a wisdom rare)
Regardless of nostalgic pains,
The weary New York millionaire
Retires with his oil-gotten gains,
And learns how deep a pleasure 'tis
To found our Public Libraries.
For ours is the primeval clan,
From which all lesser lights descend;
Is Crockett not our countryman?
And call we not Corelli friend?
Our brotherhood has bred the brain
Whose offspring bear the brand of Caine.
Tho' nowadays we seldom hear
Miss Proctor, who mislaid a chord,
Or Tennyson, the poet peer,
Who came into the garden, Mord;
Tho' Burns be dead, and Keats unread,
We have a prophet still in Stead.
And so we stare, with nose in air;
And speak in condescending tone,
Of foreigners whose climes compare
So favourably with our own;
And aliens we cannot applaud
Who call themselves At Home Abroad!
II
UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
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This is the Country of the Free,
The Cocktail and the Ten Cent Chew;
Where you're as good a man as me,
And I'm a better man than you!
(O Liberty, how free we make!
Freedom, what liberties we take!)
'Tis here the startled tourist meets,
'Mid clanging of a thousand bells,
The railways running through the streets,
Skyscraping flats and vast hotels,
Where rest, on the resplendent floors,
The necessary cuspidors.
And here you may encounter too
The pauper immigrants in shoals,
The Swede, the German, and the Jew,
The Irishman, who rules the polls
And is employed to keep the peace,
A venal and corrupt police.
They are so busy here, you know,
They have no time at all for play;
Each morning to their work they go
And stay there all the livelong day;
Their dreams of happiness depend
On making more than they can spend.
The ladies of this land are all
Developed to a pitch sublime,
Some inches over six foot tall,
With perfect figures all the time.
(For further notice of their looks
See Mr. Dana Gibson's books.)
And, if they happen to possess
Sufficient balance at the bank,
They have the chance of saying 'Yes!'
To needy foreigners of rank;
The future dukes of all the earth
Are half American by birth.
MORAL
A 'dot' combining cash with charms
Is worth a thousand coats-of-arms.
III
GREAT BRITAIN
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The British are a chilly race.
The Englishman is thin and tall;
He screws an eyeglass in his face,
And talks with a reluctant drawl.
'Good Gwacious! This is doosid slow!
By Jove! Haw demmy! Don't-cher-know!'
The Englishwoman ev'rywhere
A meed of admiration wins;
She has a crown of silken hair,
And quite the loveliest of skins.
(Go forth and seek an English maid,
Your trouble will be well repaid.)
Where Britain's banner is unfurled
There's room for nothing else beside,
She owns one-quarter of the world,
And still she is not satisfied.
The Briton thinks himself, by birth,
To be the lord of all the earth.
Some call his manners wanting, or
His sense of humour poor, and yet
Whatever he is striving for
He as a rule contrives to get;
His methods may be much to blame,
But he arrives there just the same.
MORAL
If you can get your wish, you bet it
Doesn't much matter how you get it!
IV
SCOTLAND
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In Scotland all the people wear
Red hair and freckles, and one sees
The men in women's dresses there,
With stout, décolleté, low-necked knees.
('Eblins ye dinna ken, I doot,
We're unco guid, so hoot, mon, hoot!')
They love 'ta whuskey' and 'ta Kirk';
I don't know which they like the most.
They aren't the least afraid of work;
No sense of humour can they boast;
And you require an axe to coax
The canny Scot to see your jokes.
They play an instrument they call
The bagpipes; and the sound of these
Is reminiscent of the squall
Of infant pigs attacked by bees;
Music that might drive cats away
Or make reluctant chickens lay.
MORAL
Wear kilts, and, tho' men look askance,
Go out and give your knees a chance.
V
IRELAND
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The Irishman is never quite
Contented with his little lot;
He's ever thirsting for a fight,
A grievance he has always got;
And all his energy is bent
On trying not to pay his rent.
He lives upon a frugal fare
(The few potatoes that he digs),
And hospitably loves to share
His bedroom with his wife and pigs;
But cannot settle even here,
And gets evicted once a year.
In order to amuse himself,
At any time when things are slack,
He takes his gun down from the shelf
And shoots a landlord in the back;
If he is lucky in the chase,
He may contrive to bag a brace.
MORAL
Procure a grievance and a gun
And you can have no end of fun.
VI
WALES
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The natives of the land of Wales
Are not a very truthful lot,
And the imagination fails
To paint the language they have got;
Bettws-y-coed-llan-dud-nod-
Dolgelly-rhiwlas-cwn-wm-dod!
MORAL
If you must talk, then do it, pray,
In an intelligible way.
VII
CHINA
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