A SPORTING OFFER.
(Written after a contemplation of one of our outer suburbs, and on hearing of the threatened lock-out in the building trade.)
Can this be true? that hodmen strike?
The very thought my soul bewilders.
Has Art, has beauty got no spike
To perforate the breasts of builders?
Her bricky teeth flung far and wide,
On virgin fields my London browses,
The amaranthine plains are pied
With nutty little bijou houses.
Here Daphne makes the junket set
Or squeezes from the curd the pale whey,
And drone of bees holies the Met-
ropolitan and District Railway.
Here Amaryllis tends the hearth
Till, home returning from the City,
Her Damon comes to weed the garth
(Which makes his hands most awful gritty).
Here in the golden sunset's haze
Is love, I ween, no whit less hearty
Than when it walked in soot-grimed ways,
But, oh how chic and oh how arty!
The cots themselves are spick and span,
Filling with awe the gross intruder;
Their style is early Georgian,
Which looks like measles mixed with Tudor.
Through little panes be-diamonded
The scented dusk comes softly stealing;
When you get up you strike your head
Severely on the timbered ceiling.
And some break out in sudden wings
And bloom with unsuspected gables;
The cubic area of the things
Prevents one getting round the tables.
To weave such nests, so fair, so coy,
Should be the workman's bonum summum,
To me it were all mirth, all joy
To paint, to whitewash, or to plumb 'em.
Far other was the task of thralls
Who had to rear these inner suburbs,
Piling the sad Victorian walls
Where each wan window laced its tub-herbs.
Small wonder had they cried, I wis,
Shedding large tears amongst their mortar,
"We cannot build such streets as this
Without two extra pints of porter!"
But now—ah well! Here is a bard
Long versed in wild extravaganza,
Knowing the foot-rule, and to lard
With purple bits the pounding stanza;
A little weary of the harp,
Metres and rhymes that fail to dowel,
Willing to turn from pains so sharp
To some soft labour with the trowel.
Sooner than let our love-birds pine
For post-impressionistic dwellings,
With all the windows out of line
And curious humps and antic swellings,
The motley Muse's maundering nous
Cares nothing what the union rate is,
If any young things want a house
I'll build the kickshaw for them gratis.
Evoe.