So, when you next behold me Perform a Turkey-trot, In fashion which (they've told me) Makes chaperones feel hot; Or with a strict adherence To rules of Bunny-hug, Combine the ape's appearance With manners of the Thug, I beg you won't find fault with me, But lay the blame on Melville G.!

'THE PIPES'

The voice of the violoncello Brings peace and enjoyment to some, The cornet appeals to one fellow, Another enjoys a big drum; The horn and the bugle, of melody frugal, A third deems agreeably stirring, The tw.a.n.g of the zither, the piccolo's twitter, A fourth is preferring; But none who attains to the years known as riper Can fail to be moved by the pipes of the Piper!

O Piper, processioning proudly Round tables where men sit at meat, Performing your pibrochs so loudly That no human voice can compete, What memories tender your dirges engender!

Your wind-bag successfully squeezing, You stir the affections and wake recollections, Both painful and pleasing, That soothe (like a poultice) or sting (like a viper) The hearts that respond to the pipes of the Piper!

O Piper, persistently plodding At dawn round some castle in Skye, Where guests (with their ears full of wadding) On couches of agony lie, No thrush in the thicket, no frog, and no cricket, No creature on land or in ocean, Expressing its pa.s.sion in musical fashion, Can rouse such emotion As sets the most soulless of Sa.s.senachs wiping The tears from his eyes at the sound of your piping!

Though many may term you infestive, Discordant, or dull, as they please, Or say that your skirls are suggestive Of pigs being bitten by bees; There's nought so exciting, for marching or fighting, As sounds that your chanter produces; No strains so entrancing, for dining, or dancing, Or similar uses!

In peace or in war, for civilian or 'sniper,'

There's nothing on earth like the pipes of the Piper!

MODERN DANCING

When the Waltz was first invented, Grandmamma was much upset; Long she mourned, and loud lamented, Staid Quadrille and Minuet.

In her eyes (a bit oldfashioned) Waltzing called for condemnation, As a somewhat too empa.s.sioned Form of social relaxation!

Grandma, with averted head, Swept her daughters home to bed!

When the practice of 'reversing'

Revolutionised the dance, Dear Mamma was heard aspersing Fashions introduced from France.

With invectives harsh and stinging She abused those youthful dancers Who were over fond of 'swinging'

Partners in the Kitchen Lancers; Ragging, as a ballroom sport, Made Mamma get up and snort!

[Ill.u.s.tration]

Now, when Bunny-hugging habits Elevate maternal hairs, When our daughters act like rabbits, And our sons behave like bears; When the modern ballroom gang goes Through the complicated mazes Of those pseudo-Spanish Tangoes (Last of corybantic crazes!), We can only gaze aghast, Like our forbears in the past!

But although each he (or she) grows More and more inclined to romp, Emulating am'rous negroes In some Mississippi swamp, Recollect, when Gossip chatters, Though the best hotels taboo it, 'Tisn't _what_ we dance that matters, But the way in which we do it!

Chaperones may look askance: _Honi soit qui mal y_--dance!

THE PUBLIC INTEREST

['We are ent.i.tled to use courteous or discourteous language, according as we think the public interest requires it.'--Lord HUGH CECIL.]

When rivals in the Party fray, Their sluggish blood unwarmed, An old-world courtesy display ('My honourable friend,' they say, 'Is surely misinformed?') Such feeble methods I despise, My principles are higher; Opponents I apostrophise With piercing and persistent cries Of 'Renegade!' or 'Liar!'

For I can hear, above the din, A voice within my breast That bids me use such language, in The public interest.

Some golfers, when they miss a putt, Look mortified or frown, Keeping their lips discreetly shut, They say 'Good gracious!' or 'Tut-tut, 'That makes me seven down!'

Such self-control is hard to bear, I loathe their sickly phrases, And much prefer, to clear the air, An honest 'Blast!' or 'Blazes!'

Explaining, if the caddies grin Or partners should protest, That I am simply swearing, in The public interest!

When ladies whom I chance to meet In crowded Tube or tram Attempt to oust me from my seat Or tread upon my tender feet, I always murmur 'd.a.m.n!'

And when upon the telephone, 'Exchange' remarks, 'Line's busy!'

My choice of language, and its tone, Makes hardened operators groan And supervisors dizzy.

For I maintain, through thick and thin, Discourtesy is best, So long as you display it in The public interest!

THE MILITANTS

Though Man, who alas! is our master, Declares us unfit to be free, Ignoring the placards we playfully plaster On paling and pavement and tree; And though ev'ry journal, with cunning infernal, Our speeches refuses to quote, Our conduct bears witness to feminine fitness, And shows we are ripe for the Vote!

On roofs and in cellars we've hidden, We've chained ourselves firmly to posts, Attended receptions, without being bidden, And heckled political hosts.

With dog-whip and missile, with bell and with whistle, Our cause we have sought to promote; By scratching and squalling, by biting and brawling, We've proved ourselves fit for the Vote!

[Ill.u.s.tration]

What tales of our feats could be written!

Of damage we love to inflict, Of constables wounded with hatpins, and bitten, Of Cabinet Ministers kicked!

Of how, when in Holloway, nought would we swallow Until it was forced down our throat, To prove to the nation by auto-starvation How worthy we were of the Vote!

The gardens at Kew we've uprooted, We've ruined the 'greens' on the links, The letters of innocent strangers polluted With poisonous acids and inks!

Like lunatics turning to wrecking and burning, For others we care not a groat, But meditate gaily fresh outrages daily, To prove ourselves fit for the Vote!

PLAGUES AT THE PLAY

['Last night even the postprandial conversation of some well-dressed members of the audience failed to neutralise the effect of the music, though they did their best.'--The _Times_.]

'Well-dressed,' and well-fed, and well-meaning (G.o.d knows!), They arrive when the play is half ended; As they pa.s.s to their stalls, through the tightly-packed rows, They beruffle your hair and they tread on your toes, Quite unconscious of having offended!

Then they argue a bit as to how they shall sit, And uncloak in a leisurely fashion, While they act as a blind to the people behind Who grow perfectly purple with pa.s.sion; Till at last, by the time they are seated and settled, Their neighbours all round them are thoroughly nettled!

A programme, of course, they've forgotten to buy (This in audible accents they mention), And whenever some distant attendant they spy, They halloo or give vent to remarks such as 'Hi!'

In attempts to attract her attention.

After this (which is worse) they will loudly converse, And enjoy a good gossip together On the clothes they have bought and the colds they have caught, On the state of the crops and the weather, Till they leave, in the midst of some tense 'situation,'

That's spoilt by their flow of inane conversation.

O managers, pray, am I asking too much If I beg that these 'persons of leisure'

Be kept in a sound-proof and separate hutch, If their nightly theatrical manners are such As to spoil other playgoers' pleasure?

For it can't be denied that a playhouse supplied With a cage for such talkative parrots, Or a series of stalls (of the kind that have walls And some hay and a couple of carrots) Would bestow on the public a boon and a blessing And deal with an evil in need of redressing!

A SUGGESTION

[Addressed to the lady or gentleman who had abstracted two pictures from the Royal Academy.]

My friend, why did you hold your hand, Why falter, why desist, When there are treasures in the land That never would be missed?

Next time you plunder the R.A., Its precincts do not quit Till you have made, as plumbers say, A thorough job of it.

Take ev'ry so-called work of art And (with a nation's thanks) depart!

Remove each Royal Portrait, do, Each Presentation Bust, And all those Problem Pictures, too, Which have to be discussed.

Take ev'ry daub that's labelled 'Spring'

Or 'Chelsea in a Fog,'

Or 'Home again!' or 'Baby's Swing,'