TO JOCK
(ON CHOOSING A PROFESSION)
When, Jock, I saw you, debonair and bland,
Shin perilously up the cottage grand
Piano, with the bread-knife in your hand;—
When I observed your friendly little stare,
Your guileless baby face, your general air
Of "Golly, how on earth did I get there?"—
When I remarked how cheerfully you crashed
Down on the tea-things, not the least abashed
To see the same (my wedding present) smashed!—
Then as we wondered (having wiped the tea
From off this waistcoat) "What's he going to be?"
I knew at once why father thought, "The sea."
* * * * * *
There are who sit and languidly dictate
Letters beginning "Yours of even date"—
Each one designed to rope in six-and-eight;
Wherefore each letter carefully postpones
The moment when the other party owns
His case is badly dished by "Rex v. Jones."
There are who daily in the safe retreat
Of some Department gather round and bleat
Scandal and Art, until it's time to eat;
Return at three, and, having written "Dear
Sir, your communication of last year
Duly received and noted"—disappear.
There are who do not hesitate to shove
Their views of Babes and Budgets, Life and Love
On paper—as it might be up above;
Who, fearless fellows, are not found to flinch
When some Proprietor essays to pinch
Their holiest thoughts at eightpence for the inch.
* * * * * *
Such, Jock, as these are we who bear your name
Content (well, almost) with the good old game
Of moderate Fortune unrelieved by Fame.
But there are Nobler Souls about the place,
Such spirits as have built our Island Race,
Heroes who must, who simply must, have space.
'Twas not to serve the pen that Nature gave
To these their love of all that's large and brave;
For Them an ampler life upon the Wave!
* * * * * *
So when your father (while I mop the tea)
Says that he rather thinks you'll go to sea,
Dear Jock, sweet Jock, your uncle must agree.