THE OTHER MAN.
My health is good, I know no pain,
I am not married to a wife;
From all accounts I'm fairly sane,
And yet I'm sick to death of life.
The path that leads to wealth and fame
Cannot be traversed in a day;
I find it twice as hard a game,
Because a spectre bars the way.
It has no terrors such as his
Away from which the children ran;
It's not the Bogey, but it is
The Other Man.
I met a girl, she seemed to be
A kind of vision from above.
She wasn't—but, alas! for me,
I weakly went and fell in love.
Her father was a millionnaire,
Which didn't make me love her less.
I thought her quite beyond compare,
And gave long odds she'd answer "Yes."
She thrilled me with each lovely look
She gave me from behind her fan,
She took my heart, and then she took—
The Other Man.
Farewell to Love! I thought I'd try
My level best to get a post;
The salary was not too high,
Two hundred pounds a-year at most.
Committeemen in conclave sat,
Their questions all were cut and dried:
Oh, was I this? And did I that?
And twenty thousand things beside—
As did I smoke? and could I play
At golf? or did I get the gout?
And—most important—could I say
My mother knew that I was out?
Then two were chosen. Should I "do"?
Perhaps!—and, just as I began
To hope, of course they gave it to
The Other Man.
All uselessly I've learnt to swear
And use expressions that are vile;
In vain, in vain I've torn my hair
In quite the most artistic style.
Yet one thing would I gladly learn—
Yes, tell me quickly, if you can—
Shall I be also, in my turn,
The Other Man?
THE KEY TO A LOCK.
["A lock of ——'s hair, set in a small gold-rimmed case, and said to be an ancient family possession, was knocked down for forty pounds.">[
Take yonder lock of tangled hair,
A silver seamed with sable,
Dim harbinger from dreamland fair
Of reverie and fable;
Yes, grandson mine, the treasure take,
A trinket loved, if little,
And wear it, darling, for my sake,
In yonder locket brittle;
Small, as my banker's balance, small
And faint—a touching token;
My luck, the lock, the locket, all
Seem, child, a trifle broken.
Investments, boy, are looking glum;
They flit and fade; in fine a
Not inconsiderable sum
Has gone to—Argentina.
Nay, chide me not; one day, refilled
By these, may shine your pocket,
And Fortune's resurrection gild
The lock within the locket.
Because, you see, when strong and sage
You grow, and all the serried
Lights of the great Victorian age
With me are quenched and buried;
When other men in other days
Walk paramount—then shall you
Submit the thing to such as praise
The Past, its relics value.
The curl was worn, you'll tell your friends,
By TENNYSON or BROWNING
(The detail of the name depends
On who is worth renowning).
You'll vaunt that one who knew the grand
Victorian Stars, and rather
Deserved himself to join the band
(In fact your father's father),
Who, past expression, loved whate'er
The market cottons then to,
Committed to your childish care
This genuine memento.
You'll catalogue it, as befalls
Your choice, my little gran'son;
You'll bear it to the deathless halls
Of CHRISTIE, WOODS, AND MANSON.
So, when the fateful hammer sounds,
And you have cashed in rhino
A cheque for, haply, forty pounds,
You'll bless your grandsire, I know;
Who, while his fortunes failed, and much
Was life's horizon o'ercast,
Created souvenirs with such
A keen, commercial forecast.
