TRAGIC EPISODE IN AN OMNIBUS.
(Charged to the Poet Laureate.)
Night Scene—Last City 'bus, chock full of people. Enter—Very stout old gentleman.
(Related by an eye witness.)
I.
Half a yard, half a yard,
Half a yard onward,
All through that narrow way,
Gasping and out of breath, yet never ponder'd!
"Right, Bill," the 'bus cad said,
"'Bout time we were in bed."
All through that narrow way
Still he strode onward.
II.
Though light began to fade,
Was there a man dismayed?
Not tho' each row well knew
Some one had blunder'd;
Theirs not to make reply,
Theirs not to reason why,
Theirs to sit tight and try
To look stouter, broad, and high,
As he came onward.
III.
Sneerers to right of him,
Frowners to left of him,
Scowlers in front of him,
Curses a hundred.
Words that no man could spell,
Boldly strove he and well,
All through that narrow way,
Tumbling about pell-mell,
Still on he wander'd.
IV.
To threats he gave no care,
Worrying the poor man there,
As standing he eyed them, while
The 'bus rolled and thundered.
Wrap't in his dark, brown cloak,
Right through that line he broke,
'Twas then that boot and shoe
Thought it a feeble joke—
Corns nearly sundered!
For he turned back again,
Seeing he'd blunder'd.
V.
Sneerers to right of him,
Frowners to left of him,
Scowlers behind him,
Curses a hundred.
Words that no man could spell,
How he got out no one can tell;
Back through that narrow way,
Back from that beastly sell,
Moaning the toil and time,
Unwittingly squandered.
VI.
Can his bumps be repaid?
Won't he be ever afraid
Of 'busses? I wondered!
Honour the try he made,
Honour the stones he weighed,
As he limped homeward.
From "Cribbings from the Poets" (Jones and Piggott, Cambridge, 1883.)
On page 38 a parody entitled The Doctor's Heavy Brigade was inserted, with a note that the author's name was not known. I have been pleased to receive the information that these clever verses were written by a Scotch poet whose name I am not at liberty to mention, and appeared in The Scotsman about ten years ago.
The following apropos composition, which has never before been printed, is from the same pen.
Tennyson's original poem commences—
"You ask me, why, tho' ill at ease,
Within this region I subsist,
Whose spirits falter in the mist,
And languish for the purple seas?"
And concludes—
"Yet waft me from the harbour-mouth,
Wild wind! I seek a warmer sky,
And I will see before I die
The Palms and Temples of the South."