Part 8 (1/2)

They sit down and they stay awhile, Kisses and comfort none shall lack; At morn they steal forth with a smile And a long look back.

_Owen Seaman_

One of the most delightful of English versifiers, Owen Seaman, was born in 1861. After receiving a cla.s.sical education, he became Professor of Literature and began to write for Punch in 1894. In 1906 he was made editor of that internationally famous weekly, remaining in that capacity ever since. He was knighted in 1914. As a writer of light verse and as a parodist, his agile work has delighted a generation of admirers. Some of his most adroit lines may be found in his _In Cap and Bells_ (1902) and _The Battle of the Bays_ (1892).

TO AN OLD FOGEY

(_Who Contends that Christmas is Played Out_)

O frankly bald and obviously stout!

And so you find that Christmas as a fete Dispa.s.sionately viewed, is getting out Of date.

The studied festal air is overdone; The humour of it grows a little thin; You fail, in fact, to gather where the fun Comes in.

Visions of very heavy meals arise That tend to make your organism s.h.i.+ver; Roast beef that irks, and pies that agonise The liver;

Those pies at which you annually wince, Hearing the tale how happy months will follow Proportioned to the total ma.s.s of mince You swallow.

Visions of youth whose reverence is scant, Who with the brutal _verve_ of boyhood's prime Insist on being taken to the pant- -omime.

Of infants, sitting up extremely late, Who run you on toboggans down the stair; Or make you fetch a rug and simulate A bear.

This takes your faultless trousers at the knees, The other hurts them rather more behind; And both effect a fracture in your ease Of mind.

My good dyspeptic, this will never do; Your weary withers must be sadly wrung!

Yet once I well believe that even you Were young.

Time was when you devoured, like other boys, Plum-pudding sequent on a turkey-hen; With cracker-mottos hinting of the joys Of men.

Time was when 'mid the maidens you would pull The fiery raisin with profound delight; When sprigs of mistletoe seemed beautiful And right.

Old Christmas changes not! Long, long ago He won the treasure of eternal youth; _Yours_ is the dotage--if you want to know The truth.

Come, now, I'll cure your case, and ask no fee:-- Make others' happiness this once your own; All else may pa.s.s: that joy can never be Outgrown!

THOMAS OF THE LIGHT HEART

Facing the guns, he jokes as well As any Judge upon the Bench; Between the crash of sh.e.l.l and sh.e.l.l His laughter rings along the trench; He seems immensely tickled by a Projectile while he calls a ”Black Maria.”

He whistles down the day-long road, And, when the chilly shadows fall And heavier hangs the weary load, Is he down-hearted? Not at all.

'Tis then he takes a light and airy View of the tedious route to Tipperary.[4]