Songs Of The Road | Page 3

'ere Arab man
'Ad wanted to be free,
'E could 'ave done it businesslike,
The same as you or me;
A fiver might 'ave squared the gent,
An' then 'e could 'ave claimed
As 'e'd cleared 'imself quite 'andsome,
And no call to be ashamed.
But instead 'o that this Arab man
Went on from bad to worse,
An' took an' chucked the money
At the cove wot bought the 'orse;
'E'd 'ave learned 'im better manners,
If 'e'd waited there a bit,
But 'e scooted on 'is bloomin' steed
As 'ard as 'e could split.
Per'aps 'e sold 'im after,
Or per'aps 'e 'ires 'im out,
But I'd like to warm that Arab man
Wen next 'e comes about;
For wot 'e does in other things
Is neither 'ere nor there,
But w'en it comes to 'orses

We must keep 'im on the square.
A POST-IMPRESSIONIST
Peter Wilson, A.R.A.,
In his small atelier,
Studied Continental
Schools,
Drew by Academic rules.
So he made his bid for fame,

But no golden answer came,
For the fashion of his day
Chanced to
set the other way,
And decadent forms of Art
Drew the patrons of
the mart.
Now this poor reward of merit
Rankled so in Peter's spirit,
It was
more than he could bear;
So one night in mad despair
He took his
canvas for the year
("Isle of Wight from Southsea Pier"),
And he
hurled it from his sight,
Hurled it blindly to the night,
Saw it fall
diminuendo
From the open lattice window,
Till it landed with a flop

On the dust-bin's ashen top,
Where, 'mid damp and rain and grime,

It remained till morning time.
Then when morning brought reflection,
He was shamed at his
dejection,
And he thought with consternation
Of his poor, ill-used
creation;
Down he rushed, and found it there
Lying all exposed and
bare,
Mud-bespattered, spoiled, and botched,
Water sodden,
fungus-blotched,
All the outlines blurred and wavy,
All the colours
turned to gravy,
Fluids of a dappled hue,
Blues on red and reds on
blue,
A pea-green mother with her daughter,
Crazy boats on crazy
water
Steering out to who knows what,
An island or a lobster-pot?
Oh, the wretched man's despair!
Was it lost beyond repair?
Swift he
bore it from below,

Hastened to the studio,
Where with anxious
eyes he studied
If the ruin, blotched and muddied,
Could by any
human skill
Be made a normal picture still.
Thus in most repentant mood
Unhappy Peter Wilson stood,
When,
with pompous face, self-centred,
Willoughby the critic entered --


He of whom it has been said
He lives a century ahead --
And sees
with his prophetic eye
The forms which Time will justify,
A fact
which surely must abate
All longing to reincarnate.
"Ah, Wilson," said the famous man,
Turning himself the walls to scan,

"The same old style of thing I trace,
Workmanlike but
commonplace.
Believe me, sir, the work that lives
Must furnish
more than Nature gives.
'The light that never was,' you know,
That
is your mark -- but here, hullo!
What's this? What's this? Magnificent!
I've wronged you, Wilson! I
repent!
A masterpiece! A perfect thing!
What atmosphere! What
colouring!
Spanish Armada, is it not?
A view of Ryde, no matter
what,
I pledge my critical renown
That this will be the talk of Town.

Where did you get those daring hues,
Those blues on reds, those
reds on
blues?
That pea-green face, that gamboge sky?
You've far outcried
the latest cry--
Out Monet-ed Monet. I have said
Our Art was
sleeping, but not dead.
Long have we waited for the Star,
I watched
the skies for it afar,
The hour has come--and here you are."
And that is how our artist friend
Found his struggles at an end,
And
from his little Chelsea flat
Became the Park Lane plutocrat.
'Neath
his sheltered garden wall
When the rain begins to fall,
And the
stormy winds do blow,
You may see them in a row,
Red effects and
lake and yellow
Getting nicely blurred and mellow.
With the subtle
gauzy mist
Of the great Impressionist.

Ask him how he chanced to
find
How to leave the French behind,
And he answers quick and
smart,
"English climate's best for Art."
EMPIRE BUILDERS
Captain Temple, D.S.O.,

With his banjo and retriever.
"Rough, I know, on poor old Flo,
But, by Jove! I couldn't leave her."
Niger ribbon on his breast,
In his blood the Niger fever,
Captain Temple, D.S.O.,
With his banjo and retriever.
Cox of the Politicals,
With his cigarette and glasses,
Skilled in Pushtoo gutturals,
Odd-job man among the Passes,
Keeper of the Zakka Khels,
Tutor of the Khaiber Ghazis,
Cox of the Politicals,
With his cigarette and glasses.
Mr. Hawkins, Junior Sub.,
Late of Woolwich and Thames Ditton,
Thinks his battery the hub
Of the whole wide orb of Britain.
Half a hero, half a cub,
Lithe and playful as a kitten,
Mr. Hawkins, Junior Sub.,
Late of Woolwich and Thames Ditton.
Eighty Tommies, big and small,
Grumbling hard as is their habit.
"Say, mate, what's a Bunerwal?"
"Sometime like a bloomin' rabbit."
"Got to hoof it to Chitral!"
"Blarst ye, did ye think to cab it!"
Eighty Tommies, big and small,
Grumbling hard as is their habit.

Swarthy Goorkhas, short and stout,
Merry children, laughing, crowing,
Don't know what it's all about,
Don't know any use in knowing;
Only know they mean to go
Where the Sirdar thinks of going.
Little Goorkhas, brown and stout,