More Misrepresentative Men

Graham Harry

More Misrepresentative Men

Authors Foreword

(To the Publisher)WHEN honest men are all in bed,We poets at our desks are toiling,To earn a modicum of bread,And keep the pot a-boiling;We weld together, bit by bit,The fabric of our laboured wit.We see with eyes of frank dismayThe coming of this Autumn season,When bards are driven to displayTheir feast of rhyme and reason;With hectic brain and loosened collar,We chase the too-elusive dollar.While Publishers, in search of grist,Despise our masterly inaction,And shake their faces in our fist,Demanding satisfaction,We view with vague or vacant mindThe grim agreements we have signed.For though a willing public givesIts timely share of cash assistance,The author (like the dentist) livesA hand-to-mouth existence;And Publishers, those modern Circes,Make pig's-ear purses of his verses.Behold! How ill, how thin and pale,The features of the furtive jester!Compelled by contracts to curtailHis moments of siesta!A true White Knight is he to-day(Nuit Blanche, as Stevenson would say).Ah, surely he has laboured well,Constructing this immortal sequel, —A work which no one could excel,And very few can equal, —A volume which, I dare to say,Is epoch-making, in its way.When other poets' work is not,These verses shall retain their label;When Herford is a thing forgot,And Ade an ancient fable;When Goops no longer give a signOf Burgess's empurpled kine.My Publishers, I love you so!Your well-secreted virtues viewing;Who never let your right hand knowWhom your left hand is doing;Who hold me firmly in your grip,And crack your cheque-book, like a whip!My Publishers, make no mistake,You have in me an avis rara,So write a princely cheque, and makeIt payable to bearer;I love you, as I said before,But oh! I love your money more!

Publisher's Preface

(To the Author)VORACIOUS Author, gorged with gold,Your grasping greed shall not avail!In vain you venture to unfoldYour false prehensile tale!I view in scorn (unmixed with awe)The width of your capacious maw.On me the onus has to fallOf your malevolent effusions;'Tis I who bear the brunt of allYour libellous allusions;To bolster up your turgid verse,I jeopardise my very purse!You do not hesitate to fleeceThe Publisher you scorn to thank,And when you manage to decreaseHis balance at the bank,Your face is lighted up with greed,And you are lantern-jawed indeed!Yet will I still heap coals of fire,Until your coiffure is imbedded,And you at last, perchance, shall tireOf growing so hot-headed,And realise that being funnyIs not a mere affair of money.And so, in honour of your pow'rs,A fragrant bouquet will I pick,Of rare exotics, blossoms, flow'rsOf speech and rhetoric;I'll add a thistle, if I may,And, round the whole, a wreath of bay.The blossoms for your button-hole,To mark your affluent condition,Exotics to inspire your soulTo further composition.Come, set the bays upon your brow!* * * * *Well, eat the thistle, anyhow!

Robert Burns

THE jingling rhymes of Dr. WattsExcite the reader's just impatience,He wearies of Sir Walter Scott'sMelodious verbal collocations,And with advancing years he learnsTo love the simpler style of Burns.Too much the careworn critic knowsOf that obscure robustious diction,Which like a form of fungus growsAmid the Kailyard school of fiction;In Crockett's cryptic caves one sighsFor Burns's clear and spacious skies.Tho' no aspersions need be castOn Barrie's wealth of wit fantastic,Creator of that unsurpass'dIf most minute ecclesiastic;Yet even here the eye discernsNo master-hand like that of Burns.The works of Campbell and the restExhale a sanctimonious odour,Their vintage is but Schnapps, at best,Their Scotch is simply Scotch-and-sodour!They cannot hope, like Burns, to winThat "touch which makes the whole world kin."Tho' some may sing of Neil Munro,And virtues in Maclaren see,Or want but little here below,And want that little Lang, maybe;Each renegade at length returns,To praise the peerless pow'rs of Burns.His verse, as all the world declares,And Tennyson himself confesses,The radiance of the dewdrop shares,The berry's perfect shape possesses;And even William Wordsworth praisesThe magic of his faultless phrases.But he, whose books bedeck our shelves,Whose lofty genius we adore so,Was only human, like ourselves, —Perhaps, indeed, a trifle more so!And joined a thirst that nought could quenchTo morals which were frankly French.And ev'ry night he made his way,With boon companions, bent on frolic,To inns of ill-repute, where layRefreshments – chiefly alcoholic!(But I decline to raise your gorges,Describing these nocturnal orgies.)Of love-affairs he knew no end,So long and ardently he flirted,And e'en the least suspicious friendWould feel a trifle disconcerted,When Burns was sitting with his "sposa,""As thick as thieves on Vallombrosa!"A Cockney Chiel who found him thus,And showed some conjugal alarm,When Burns implored him not to fuss,Enquiring calmly, "Where's the harm?"Replied at once, with perfect taste,"The harm is round my consort's waist!""A poor thing but my own," said he,His fair but fickle bride denoting,And she, with scathing repartee,Assented, wilfully misquoting,(Tho' carefully brought up, like Jonah),"A poorer thing – and yet my owner!"The most bucolic hearts were burntBy Burns' amatory glances;The most suburban spinsters learntTo welcome his abrupt advances;When Burns was on his knee, 'twas said,They wished that they were there instead!They loved him from the first, in spiteOf angry parents' interference;They deemed his courtship so polite,So captivating his appearance;So great his charm, so apt his wit,In local parlance, Burns was IT!The rustic maids from far and wide,Encouraged his unwise flirtations;For love of Burns they moped and sighed,And, while their nearest male relationsWere up in arms, the sad thing isThat they themselves were up in his!His crest a mug, with open lid,The kind in vogue with ancient Druids, —Inscribed "Amari Aliquid,"(Which means "I'm very fond of fluids!"),On either side, as meet supporters,The village blacksmith's lovely daughters."Men were deceivers ever!" True,As Shakespeare says (Hey Nonny! Nonny!),But one should always keep in viewThat "tout comprendr' c'est tout pardonny";In judging poets it sufficesTo scan their verses, not their vices.…The poets of the present timeAttempt their feeble imitations;Are economical of rhyme,And lavish with reiterations;The while a patient public swallowsA "Border Ballad" much as follows: —Jamie lad, I lo'e ye weel,Jamie lad, I lo'e nae ither,Jamie lad, I lo'e ye weel,Like a mither.Jamie's ganging doon the burn,Jamie's ganging doon, whateffer,Jamie's ganging doon the burn,To Strathpeffer!Jamie's comin' hame to dee,Jamie's comin' hame, I'm thinkin',Jamie's comin' hame to dee,Dee o' drinkin'!Hech! Jamie! Losh! Jamie!Dinna greet sae sair!Gin ye canna, winna, shannaSee yer lassie mair!Wha' hoo!Wha' hae!Strathpeffer!I give you now, as antidote,Some lines which I myself indited.Carnegie, when he read them, wroteTo say that he was quite delighted;Their pathos cut him to the quick,Their humour almost made him sick.The queys are moopin' i' the mirk,An' gin ye thole ahin' the kirk,I'll gar ye tocher hame fra' work,Sae straught an' primsie;In vain the lavrock leaves the snaw,The sonsie cowslips blithely blaw,The elbucks wheep adoon the shaw,Or warl a whimsy.The cootie muircocks crousely craw,The maukins tak' their fud fu' braw,I gie their wames a random paw,For a' they're skilpy;For wha' sae glaikit, gleg an' din,To but the ben, or loup the linn,Or scraw aboon the tirlin'-pinSae frae an' gilpie?Och, snood the sporran roun' ma lap,The cairngorm clap in ilka cap,Och, hand me o'erMa lang claymore,Twa, bannocks an' a bap,Wha hoo!Twa bannocks an' a bap!…O fellow Scotsman, near and far,Renowned for health and good digestion,For all that makes you what you are, —(But are you really? That's the question) —Be grateful, while the world endures,That Burns was countryman of yours.And hand-in-hand, in alien land,Foregather with your fellow cronies,To masticate the haggis (cann'd)At Scottish Conversaziones,Where, flushed with wine and Auld Lang Syne,You worship at your country's shrine!

William Waldorf Astor

HOW blest a thing it is to dieFor Country's sake, as bards have sung!How sweet "pro patria mori,"(To quote the vulgar Latin tongue);And yet to him the palm we giveWho for his fatherland can live.Historians have explained to us,In terms that never can grow cold,How well the bold HoratiusPlayed bridge in the brave days of old;And we can read of hosts of others,From Spartan boys to Roman mothers.But nowhere has the student got,From poet, pedagogue, or pastor,The picture of a patriotSo truly typical as Astor;And none has ever shown a greaterAffection for his Alma Mater.With loyalty to FatherlandHis heart inflexible as starch is,Whene'er he hears upon a bandThe too prolific Sousa's marches;And from his eyes a tear he wipes,Each time he sees the Stars and Stripes.Tho' others roam across the foamTo European health resorts,The fact that "there's no place like home"Is foremost in our hero's thoughts;And all in vain have people triedTo lure him from his "ain fireside."Let tourists travel near or far,By wayward breezes widely blown,He stops at the Astoria,"A poor thing" (Shakespeare), "but his own;"And nothing that his friends may doCan drag him from Fifth Avenue.The Western heiress is contentTo scale, as a prospective bride,The bare six-story tenementWhere foreign pauper peers reside;But men like Astor all disparageThe so-called Morgan-attic marriage.

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