More Misrepresentative Men

Andrew Carnegie

IN Caledonia, stern and wild,Whence scholars, statesmen, bards have sprung,Where ev'ry little barefoot childCorrectly lisps his mother-tongue,And lingual solecisms betokenThat Scotch is drunk, as well as spoken,There dwells a man of iron nerve,A millionaire without a peer,Possessing that supreme reserveWhich stamps the caste of Vere de Vere,And marks him out to human kenAs one of Nature's noblemen.Like other self-made persons, heIs surely much to be excused,Since they have had no choice, you see,Of the material to be used;But when his noiseless fabric grew,He builded better than he knew.A democrat, whose views are frank,To him Success alone is vital;He deems the wealthy cabman's "rank"As good as any other title;To him the post of postman bettersThe trade of other Men of Letters.The relative who seeks to wedSome nice but indigent patrician,He urges to select insteadA coachman of assured position,Since safety-matches, you'll agree,Strike only on the box, says he.At Skibo Castle, by the sea,A splendid palace he has built,Equipped with all the luxuryOf plush, of looking-glass, and gilt;A style which Ruskin much enjoyed,And christened "Early German Lloyd."With milking-stools and ribbon'd screensThe floor is covered, well I know;The walls are thick with tambourines,Hand-painted many years ago;Ah, how much taste our forbears had!And nearly all of it was bad.Each flow'r-embroidered boudoir suite,Each "cosy corner" set apart,Was modelled in the Regent StreetEmporium of suburban art."O Liberty!" (I quote with shame)"The crimes committed in thy name!"But tho' his mansion now containsA swimming-bath, a barrel-organ,Electric light, and even drains,As good as those of Mr. Morgan,There was a time when Andrew C.Was not obsessed by l. s. d.Across the seas he made his pile,In Pittsburg, where, I've understood,You have to exercise some guileTo do the very slightest good;But he kept doing good by stealth,And doubtless blushed to find it wealth.And now his private hobby 'tisTo meet a starving people's needBy making gifts of librariesTo those who never learnt to read;Rich mental banquets he providesFor folks with famishing insides.In Education's hallowed nameHe pours his opulent libations;His vast deserted Halls of FameIncrease the gaiety of nations.But still the slums are plague-infested,The hospitals remain congested.…Carnegie, should your kindly eyeThis foolish book of verses meet,Please order an immense supply,To make your libraries complete,And register its author's nameWithin your princely Halls of Fame!

King Cophetua

TO sing of King CophetuaI am indeed unwilling,For none of his adventures areParticularly thrilling;Nor, as I hardly need to mention,Am I addicted to invention.The story of his roving eye,You must already know it,Since it has been narrated byLord Tennyson, the poet;I could a moving tale unfold,But it has been so often told.But since I wish my friends to seeMy early education,If Tennyson will pardon meA somewhat free translation,I'll try if something can't be sungIn someone else's mother-tongue."Cophetua and the Beggar Maid!"So runs the story's title(An explanation, I'm afraid,Is absolutely vital),Express'd, as I need hardly mench:In 4 a.m. (or early) French: —Les bras posés sur la poitrineLui fait l'apparence divine, —Enfin elle a très bonne mine, —Elle arrive, ne portant pasDe sabots, ni même de bas,Pieds-nus, au roi Cophetua.Le roi lors, couronne sur tête,Vêtu de ses robes de fête,Va la rencontrer, et l'arrête.On dit, "Tiens, il y en a de quoi!""Je ferais ça si c'était moi!"Il saits s'amuser donc, ce roi!Ainsi qu'la lune brille aux cieux,Cette enfant luit de mieux en mieux,Quand même ses habits soient vieux.En voilà un qui loue ses yeux,Un autre admire ses cheveux,Et tout le monde est amoureux.Car on n'a jamais vu là-basUn charme tel que celui-làAlors le bon CophetuaJure, "La pauvre mendiante,Si séduisante, si charmante,Sera ma femme, – ou bien ma tante!"

Joseph F. Smith

THOUGH, to the ordinary mind,The weight of marriage ties is suchThat many mere, male, mortals findOne wife enough, – if not too much;I see no no reason to abuseA person holding other views.Though most of us, at any rate,Have not acquired the plural habits,Which we are apt to delegateTo Eastern potentates, – or rabbits;We should regard with open mindThe more uxoriously inclined.In Salt Lake City dwells a manWho deems monogamy a myth;(One of that too prolific clanWhich glories in the name of Smith);A "Prophet, Seer, and Revelator,"With the appearance of a waiter.This hoary patriarch contrivesTo thrive in manner most bewild'rin',With close on half a dozen wives,And nearly half a hundred children;And views with unaffrighted eyesThe burden of domestic ties.To him all spouses seem the same —Each one a model of the Graces;He knows his children all by name,But cannot recollect their faces;A minor point, since, I suppose,Each one has got its popper's nose!They are denied to me and you:Such old-world luxuries as his,When, after work, he hastens toThe bosoms of his families(Each offspring joining with the othersIn, "What is Home without five Mothers?").Such strange surroundings would retardMost ordinary men's digestions;Five ladies all conversing hard,And fifty children asking questions!Besides (the tragic final straw),Five se-pa-rate mamas-in-law!What difficulties there must beTo find a telescopic mansion;For each successive familyThe space sufficient for expansion.("But that," said Kipling, in his glory —"But that is quite another storey!")The sailor who, from lack of thought,Or else a too diffuse affection,Has, for a wife in ev'ry port,An unappeasing predilection,Would designate as "simply great!"The mode of life in Utah State.The gay Lothario, too, who makesHis mad but meaningless advancesTo more than one fair maid, and takesA large variety of chances,Need have no fear, in such a place,Of any breach-of-promise case.With Mormons of the latter-dayI have no slightest cause for quarrel;Nor do I doubt at all that theyAre quite exceptionally moral;Their President has told us so,And he, if anyone, should know.But tho' of folks in Utah State,But 2 percent lead plural lives,Perhaps the other 98Are just – their children and their wives!O stern, ascetic congregation,Resisting all – except temptation!Well, I, for one, can see no harm,Unless for trouble one were looking,In having wives on either arm,And one downstairs – to do the cooking.A touching scene; with nought to dim it.But fifty children! – That's the limit!Some middle course would I explore;Incur a merely dual bond;One wife, brunette, to scrub the floor,And one for outdoor use, a blonde;Thus happily could I exist,A moral Mormonogamist!

Sherlock Holmes

THE French "filou" may raise his "bock,"The "Green-goods man" his cocktail, whenHe toast Gaboriau's Le Coq,Or Pinkerton's discreet young men;But beer in British bumpers foamsAround the name of Sherlock Holmes!Come, boon companions, all of youWho (woodcock-like) exist by suction,Uplift your teeming tankards toThe great Professor of Deduction!Who is he? You shall shortly seeIf (Watson-like) you "follow me."In London (on the left-hand sideAs you go in), stands Baker Street,Exhibited with proper prideBy all policemen on the beat,As housing one whose predilectionIs private criminal detection.The malefactor's apt disguisePresents to him an easy task;His placid, penetrating eyesCan pierce the most secretive mask;And felons ask a deal too muchWho fancy to elude his clutch.No slender or exiguous clewToo paltry for his needs is found;No knot too stubborn to undo,No prey too swift to run to ground;No road too difficult to travel,No skein too tangled to unravel.For Holmes the ash of a cigar,A gnat impinging on his eye,Possess a meaning subtler farThan humbler mortals can descry.A primrose at the river's brimNo simple primrose is to him!To Holmes a battered Brahma key,Combined with blurred articulation,Displays a man's capacityFor infinite ingurgitation;Obliquity of moral visionBetrays the civic politician.I had an uncle, who possessedA marked resemblance to a bloater,Whom Sherlock, by deduction, guessedTo be the victim of a motor;Whereas, his wife (or so he swore)Had merely shut him in the door!My brother's nose, whose hectic hueRecalled the sun-kissed autumn leaf,Though friends attributed it toSome secret or domestic grief,Revealed to Holmes his deep potations,And not the loss of loved relations!I had a poodle, short and fat,Who proved a conjugal deceiver;Her offspring were a Maltese Cat,Two Dachshunds and a pink retriever!Her husband was a pure-bred Skye;And Sherlock Holmes alone knew why!When after-dinner speakers rise,To plunge in anecdotage deep,At once will Sherlock recogniseEach welcome harbinger of sleep:That voice which torpid guests entrances,That immemorial voice of Chauncey's!Not his, suppose Hall Caine should walkAll unannounced into the room,To say, like pressmen of New York,"Er – Mr. Shakespeare, I presoom?"By name "The Manxman" Holmes would hail,Observing that he had no tale.In vain, amid the lonely stateOf Zion, dreariest of havens,Does bashful Dowie emulateThe prophet who was fed by ravens;To Holmes such affluence betraysA prophet who is fed by jays!…With Holmes there lived a foolish man,To whom I briefly must allude,Who gloried in possessing anAbnormal mental hebetude;One could describe the grossest bétiseTo this (forgive the rhyme) Achates.'Twas Doctor Watson, human mole,Obtusely, painfully polite;Who played the unambitious rôleOf parasitic satellite;Inevitably bound to bore us,Like Aristophanes's Chorus.…But London town is sad to-day,And preternaturally solemn;The fountains murmur "Let us spray"To Nelson on his lonely column;Big Ben is mute, her clapper crack'd is,For Holmes has given up his practice.No more in silence, as the snake,Will he his sinuous path pursue,Till, like the weasel (when awake),Or deft, resilient kangaroo,He leaps upon his quivering quarry,Before there's time to say you're sorry.No more will criminals, at dawn,Effecting some burglarious entry,(While Sherlock, on the garden lawn,Enacts the thankless rôle of sentry),Discover, to their bitter cost,That felons who are found – are lost!No more on Holmes shall Watson baseThe Chronicles he proudly fabled;The violin and morphia-caseAre in the passage, packed and labelled;And Holmes himself is at the door,Departing – to return no more.He bids farewell to Baker Street,Though Watson clings about his knees;He hastens to his country seat,To spend his dotage keeping bees;And one of them, depend upon it,Shall find a haven in his bonnet!But though in grief our heads are bowed,And tears upon our cheeks are shining,We recognise that ev'ry cloudConceals somewhere a silver lining;And hear with deep congratulationOf Watson's timely termination.

Aftword

YE Critics, who with bilious eyePeruse my incoherent medley,Prepared to let your arrows fly,With cruel aim and purpose deadly,Desist a moment, ere you spoilThe harvest of a twelvemonth's toil!Remember, should you scent afarThe crusted jokes of days gone by,What conscious plagiarists we are:Molière and Seymour Hicks and I,For, as my bearded chestnuts prove,Je prends mon bien où je le trouve!My wealth of wit I never wasteOn Chestertonian paradox;My humour, in the best of taste,Like Miss Corelli's, never shocks;For sacred things my rev'rent aweResembles that of Bernard Shaw.Behold how tenderly I treatEach victim of my pen and brain,And should I tread upon his feet,How lightly I leap off again;Observe with what an airy graceI fling my inkpot in his face!And those who seek at Christmas time,An inexpensive gift for Mother,Will fine this foolish book of rhymeAs apposite as any other,And suitable for presentationTo any poor or near relation.To those whose intellect is small,This work should prove a priceless treasure;To persons who have none at all,A never-ending fount of pleasure;A mental stimulus or tonicTo all whose idiocy is chronic.And you, my Readers (never mindWhich category you come under),Will, after due reflection, findMy verse a constant source of wonder;'Twill make you think, I dare to swear —But what you think I do not care!