While clerks lunch at Lockhart's or Lyons',
And labourers meet at some 'pub,'
Society's celibate scions
Resort to the Bachelors' Club;
For here all the members elected
Belong to a very smart set,
And bask in the sunshine reflected
From Mr. Gillett.
Here youths of the Governing Classes
At regular intervals call,
To tap barometrical glasses
Or study the tape in the Hall;
Discussing the 'latest from Lincoln,'
Comparing the odds of each bet,
Or reading out jokes from the 'Pink 'Un'
To Mr. Gillett.
And though they severely disparage
Those trammels that Benedicks bind,
And members who contemplate marriage
Are spoken to sharply and fined;
'The Sex' they regard as no sinners,
And ladies may often be met,
Partaking of luncheons or dinners
With Mr. Gillett.
Here, too, for young persons of leisure
Who wish to develop the mind,
Instruction is tempered with pleasure,
Tuition with fun is combined;
New knowledge they gain (one conjectures)
And cerebral stimulus get,
Attending the Radium Lectures
Of Mr. Gillett.
Then ho! for this celibate centre
For youths who are loth to espouse,
Though fish-knives (the gift of their mentor)
May tempt them to cancel their vows!
And ho! for that guide and dictator!
Their whistles let bachelors wet
(A whisky and soda, please, waiter!)
To Mr. Gillett!

CANTO IV

THE GARRICK

If for solitude you feel a partiality,
If you chance to be unsociably inclined,
If (like other men of British nationality)
You abominate the presence of your kind;
If you take your pleasures glumly
And delight in dining dumbly,
And if table-talk's a thing you nearly die of;
If you look with detestation
Upon Gen'ral Conversation,
Then the Garrick is a club you should fight shy of!
If you hunger for companionship and jollity,
If you much prefer to chatter while you eat,
If you condescend at moments to frivolity,
And will fraternise with any one you meet;
If your interest is chronic
In the art called histrionic,
If your passion for the drama's hot and strong, too;
If you welcome its professors
Telling tales about their 'dressers,'
Then the Garrick is a club you should belong to!
If you come here (say) at supper-time on Saturdays,
You will meet with all the patrons of the stage
(Though the place is not so popular, these latter days,
As it was before 'week-ends' became the rage).
Here each notable 'first-nighter,'
Critic, journalist, and writer,
Sprinkles pepper on this club's especial oyster,
And you hear a well-known jurist
Or some literary purist
Telling anecdotes unsuited to the cloister!
Here you'll notice, too, a perfect portrait-gallery
Of those mummers who immortal have become,
Though they earned, no doubt, a less prodigious salary
Than the moderns who more lucratively mum.
On these walls they all assemble,
Garrick, Matthews, Irving, Kemble,
Men who knew what the traditions of the stage meant,
In the days when ev'ry mummer
Wore a sealskin coat in summer
And would scorn a common music-hall engagement!
'Tis a club for ev'ry section of the laity,
Where the Services, the Press, the Bench, the Bar,
Find delight in S-m-r H-cks's verbal gaiety
And the anecdotal wit of C-m-ns C-rr.
Here the members who are crafty
Seek a seat that isn't draughty—
In the anteroom or lounge you may discern 'em—
And postprandially cluster,
Gaining dignity and lustre
From the presence of a B-ncr-ft and a B-rnh-m!

CANTO V

THE AUTOMOBILE

Pall Mall was a sober and dignified street
In the days (say) of Dickens or Marryat,
Where statesmen their peers would with courtesy greet,
Where the senator sauntered on leisurely feet,
And the dowager drove in her chariot.
The War Office entries
Were guarded by sentries;
But Mars was polite to the Graces,
And officers' mothers,
Their sisters, and others,
Called daily on those in high places,
Demanding, with true patriotic devotion,
Their sons' (or their brothers') more rapid promotion!
Times changed. The old War Office warren was scrapped,
And this suitable site was selected
By motorists, goggled, befurred, and peak-capped,
As a central position excessively apt
For the Palace of Fun they erected.
In place of old quiet
Came racket and riot,
As cars at the club kept arriving,
Or p'licemen in torrents
Poured in, to serve warrants
On members for 'furious driving';
Where amateur chauffeurs, resolved to be jolly,
Were drowning dull care in a 'Petrol and Polly'!
For those who enjoy fellow-men in the bunch
This is really a fine place of meeting;
For here in a crowd men may guzzle and munch
(Though the orchestra makes such a noise while they lunch
That the members can't hear themselves eating).
Here thousands forgather,
To feed and to blather—
Each day brings a fresh reinforcement—
And tell (with a dry sense
Of fun) how their licence
Got marked with its latest endorsement,
Or how many yokels and dogs they ran over
The day that they fractured the 'record' to Dover!

CANTO VI

BROOKS'S

How soft those whiskered waiters tread,
Their dishes dexterously handing!
'Twould seem (as some one aptly said)
As though a nobleman lay dead
Upon an upper landing,
In such tranquillity and quiet
Do members masticate their diet!
Yes, here is peace, that 'perfect peace,'
With loved ones safely at a distance,
Which men demand who seek release
From cares that cause the brow to crease
And poison the existence;
Peace, comatose—nay, cataleptic—
Dear to the dotard and dyspeptic!
The special feature of the place
Is that it has no special feature;
Its tone is that of frigid grace
With which the Briton loves to face
Each human fellow-creature.
Here sire meets son, or brother brother,
And neither need address the other!
Within this dignified retreat,
From Government or Opposition,
The Whigs of all opinions meet,
Eyeing each other, as they eat,
With looks of dumb suspicion.
Here Unionist regards Home Ruler
With feelings daily growing cooler.
Through Brooks's battered ballot-box
His way to fame a man may well win,
Who sits where Sheridan and Fox
Discoursed of dice or fighting-cocks
With Wilberforce and Selwyn;
Where modern wits and legislators
Converse with no one but the waiters!