The Scarlet Gown | Page 8

had got a prize, Jim,
And your certif. was bad,?And you were filled with sorrow?And brooding on the morrow,?I'd gently sympathise, Jim,?And bid you not be sad,?If I had got a prize, Jim,
And your certif. was bad.
If I were through in Moral,
And you were spun in Math.,?I'd break it to your parent,?When you confessed you daren't,?And so avert a quarrel
And smooth away his wrath;?If I were through in Moral,
And you were spun in Math.
My prospects rather shone, Jim,
And yours were rather dark,?And those who knew us both then?Would often take their oath then,?That you would not get on, Jim,?While I should make my mark;?My prospects rather shone, Jim,
And yours were rather dark.
Yet somehow you've made money,
And I am still obscure;?Your face is round and red, Jim,?While I look underfed, Jim;?The thing's extremely funny,
And beats me, I am sure,?Yet somehow you've made money,
And I am still obscure.
THE GOLF-BALL AND THE LOAN
AFTER LONGFELLOW
I drove a golf-ball into the air,?It fell to earth, I knew not where;?For, so swiftly it flew, the sight?Could not follow it in its flight.
I lent five shillings to some men,?They spent it all, I know not when,?For who is quick enough to know?The time in which a crown may go?
Long, long afterward, in a whin?I found the golf-ball, black as sin;?But the five shillings are missing still!?They haven't turned up, and I doubt if they will.
TO THE READER OF 'UNIVERSITY NOTES'
Ah yes, we know what you're saying,
As your eye glances over these Notes:?'What asses are these that are braying
With flat and unmusical throats??Who writes such unspeakable patter?
Is it lunatics, idiots--or who?'?And you think there is 'something the matter.'
Well, we think so too.
We have sat, full of sickness and sorrow,
As the hours dragged heavily on,?Till the midnight has merged into morrow,
And the darkness is going or gone.?We are Editors. Give us the credit
Of meaning to do what we could;?But, since there is nothing to edit,?It isn't much good.
Once we shared the delightful delusion
That to edit was racy and rare,?But we suffered a sad disillusion,
And we found that our castles were air;?We had decked them with carvings and gildings,
We had filled them with laughter and fun,?But all of a sudden the buildings
Came down with a run.
Not a trace was there left of the carving,
And the gilding had vanished from sight;?But the 'column' for matter was starving,
And we had not to edit--but write.?So we set to and wrote. Can you wonder,
If the writing was feeble or dead??We had started as editors--Thunder!
We were authors instead.
We'd mistaken our calling, election,?Vocation, department, and use;?We had thought that our task was selection,
And we found that we had to produce.?So we sigh for release from our labours,
We pray for a happy despatch,?We will take our last leave of our neighbours,
And then--Colney Hatch.
We are singing this dolorous ditty
As we part at the foot of the stairs;?We cannot but think it's a pity,
But what matter? there's nobody cares.?Our candle burns low in its socket,
There is nothing left but the wick;?And these Notes, that went up like a rocket,
Come down like the stick.
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Ever to be the best. To lead
In whatsoever things are true;?Not stand among the halting crew,?The faint of heart, the feeble-kneed,?Who tarry for a certain sign
To make them follow with the rest--?Oh, let not their reproach be thine!
But ever be the best.
For want of this aspiring soul,
Great deeds on earth remain undone,?But, sharpened by the sight of one,?Many shall press toward the goal.?Thou running foremost of the throng,?The fire of striving in thy breast,?Shalt win, although the race be long,
And ever be the best.
And wilt thou question of the prize?
'Tis not of silver or of gold,?Nor in applauses manifold,?But hidden in the heart it lies:?To know that but for thee not one
Had run the race or sought the quest,?To know that thou hast ever done
And ever been the best.
CATULLUS AT HIS BROTHER'S GRAVE
Through many lands and over many seas?I come, my Brother, to thine obsequies,?To pay thee the last honours that remain,?And call upon thy voiceless dust, in vain.?Since cruel fate has robbed me even of thee,?Unhappy Brother, snatched away from me,?Now none the less the gifts our fathers gave,?The melancholy honours of the grave,?Wet with my tears I bring to thee, and say?Farewell! farewell! for ever and a day.
LOST AT SEA
Lost at sea, with all on board!?No one saw their sinking sail,?No one heard their dying wail,?Heard them calling on the Lord--?Lost at sea, with all on board.
Till the sea gives up its dead,?There they lie in quiet sleep,?And the voices of the deep?Sound unheeded overhead,?Till the sea gives up its dead.
PLEASANT PROPHECIES
A day of gladness yet will dawn,
Though when I cannot say;?Perhaps it may be Thursday week,
Perhaps some other day,--
When man, freed from the bond of clothes,
And needing no more food,?Shall never pull his neighbour's nose,
But be extremely good.
When Love and Nobleness shall live
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