The Scarlet Gown | Page 6

written a broad letter
And sealed it with a ring,
And the letter saith that the town water
Is not a goodly thing.
And they have met, and the Bailies all,
And eke the Councillors,
And they have ta'en the broad letter
And read it within the doors.
And there has fallen a great quarrel,

And a striving within the doors,
And quarrelsome words have the
Bailies said,
And eke the Councillors.
And one saith, 'We will have other water,'
And another saith, 'But
nay;'
And none may tell what the end shall be,
Alack and well-a-day!
[GREEK TITLE]
I love the inoffensive frog,
'A little child, a limber elf,'
With health and spirits all agog,
He
does the long jump in a bog
Or teaches men to swim and dive.
If he
should be cut up alive,
Should I not be cut up myself?
So I intend to be straightway
An Anti-Vivisectionist;
I'll read Miss Cobbe five hours a day
And
watch the little frogs at play,
With no desire to see their hearts
At
work, or other inward parts,
If other inward parts exist.
TO NUMBER 27X.
Beloved Peeler! friend and guide
And guard of many a midnight reeler,
None worthier, though the
world is wide,
Beloved Peeler.
Thou from before the swift four-wheeler

Didst pluck me, and didst thrust aside
A strongly built
provision-dealer
Who menaced me with blows, and cried
'Come on! Come on!' O Paian, Healer,
Then but for thee I must have
died,
Beloved Peeler!
A STREET CORNER
Here, where the thoroughfares meet at an angle
Of ninety degrees (this angle is right),
You may hear the loafers that
jest and wrangle
Through the sun-lit day and the lamp-lit night;
Though day be dreary
and night be wet,
You will find a ceaseless concourse met;
Their
laughter resounds and their Fife tongues jangle,
And now and again their Fife fists fight.
Often here the voice of the crier
Heralds a sale in the City Hall,
And slowly but surely drawing nigher
Is heard the baker's bugle call.
The baker halts where the two ways
meet,
And the blast, though loud, is far from sweet
That with breath
of bellows and heart of fire
He blows, till the echoes leap from the wall.
And on Saturday night just after eleven,
When the taverns have
closed a moment ago,
The vocal efforts of six or seven
Make the corner a place of woe.
For the time is fitful, the notes are

queer,
And it sounds to him who dwelleth near
Like the wailing for
cats in a feline heaven
By orphan cats who are left below.
Wherefore, O Bejant, Son of the Morning,
Fresh as a daisy dipt in the dew,
Hearken to me and receive my
warning:
Though rents be heavy, and bunks be few
And most of them troubled
with rat or mouse,
Never take rooms in a corner house;
Or
sackcloth and ashes and sad self-scorning
Shall be for a portion unto you.
THE POET'S HAT
The rain had fallen, the Poet arose,
He passed through the doorway into the street,
A strong wind lifted
his hat from his head,
And he uttered some words that were far from sweet.
And then he
started to follow the chase,
And put on a spurt that was wild and fleet,
It made the people pause
in a crowd,
And lay odds as to which would beat.
The street cad scoffed as he hunted the hat,
The errand-boy shouted hooray!
The scavenger stood with his broom
in his hand,
And smiled in a very rude way;
And the clergyman thought, 'I have
heard many words,

But never, until to-day,
Did I hear any words that were quite so bad
As I heard that young man say.'
A SONG OF GREEK PROSE
Thrice happy are those
Who ne'er heard of Greek Prose--
Or Greek
Poetry either, as far as that goes;
For Liddell and Scott
Shall cumber them not,
Nor Sargent nor
Sidgwick shall break their repose.
But I, late at night,
By the very bad light
Of very bad gas, must
painfully write
Some stuff that a Greek
With his delicate cheek
Would smile at as
'barbarous'--faith, he well might.
For when it is done,
I doubt if, for one,
I myself could explain how
the meaning might run;
And as for the style--
Well, it's hardly worth while
To talk about
style, where style there is none.
It was all very fine
For a poet divine
Like Byron, to rave of Greek
women and wine;
But the Prose that I sing
Is a different thing,
And I frankly
acknowledge it's not in my line.
So away with Greek Prose,
The source of my woes!
(This metre's
too tough, I must draw to a close.)
May Sargent be drowned
In the ocean profound,
And Sidgwick be
food for the carrion crows!
AN ORATOR'S COMPLAINT

How many the troubles that wait
On mortals!--especially those
Who endeavour in eloquent prose
To
expound their views, and orate.
Did you ever attempt to speak
When you hadn't a word to say?
Did you find that it wouldn't pay,

And subside, feeling dreadfully weak?
Did you ever, when going