THE APPOINTMENT.
They tell me there is work for most,
However tired they be,
That there are Offices engrossed
In finding me a well-paid post
Of suitable degree;
That there are businesses that itch
To make the young lieutenant rich,
Yet I have not discovered which
Is itching after me.
And this is strange; for I could shine
In any place you please,
Although, if there is any line
Which is most obviously mine,
It is the man of ease—
The man whose intellect is such
He never has to labour much,
But does the literary touch
In comfort at "The Leas."
Or I could be a splendid Squire
And watch the harvest grow,
Could urge the reaper to perspire
And put the cattle in the byre
(If that is where they go),
And every morning do the rounds
Of my immense ancestral grounds
With six or seven faithful hounds,
And say, "It looks like snow."
And there are moments when I feel
The diplomatic call;
No trickery would long conceal
The state of things at Bubazeel
When I was at the Ball,
To spy across the "brilliant floors"
On daughters of Ambassadors,
And "obviate" impending wars
By dancing with them all.
A bishopric I can't afford,
Though I could give it tone,
And often when the people snored
I've felt they would not be so bored
By sermons of my own;
But if the Secretaries cry
For secretaries—here am I;
Or nobly would I occupy
The taxi-driver's throne.
For I should beam across the street
When people waved at me,
And say, "My petrol's incomplete,
I haven't had my bit of meat
Nor yet my bit of tea,
But just because I like your face
I'll take you out to any place
However distant from my base—
And ask no extra fee."
And yet I doubt could England bear
To see my rest destroyed?
A soul so delicate and fair
Should simply saunter through the air
And cultivate the void;
One would not readily degrade
One's loveliness in any trade,
Only, of course, one must be paid
For being unemployed.
A. P. H.