SONGS IN SEASON

NEW YEAR'S EVE

In fashion reflective, with plaint or invective,
We view in perspective the year in eclipse,
The duties neglected, the faults uncorrected,
The blunders, the failures, the slips!
We note with depression that painful procession
Of lapse and transgression which held us in thrall,
The sins of omission, the vaulting ambition,
The pride that preceded each fall!
Regretful, alas! we are loth to remember
The good resolutions we made last December!
The keen politicians who cherished ambitions
To better conditions for sons of the State,
Make private confession of wasting each session
In fruitless and futile debate;
The Peer of position regards with contrition
That past inanition, so hard to resist;
The social reformer grows sensibly warmer,
To note opportunities miss'd;
While Cabinet statesmen still seek (somewhat sadly)
For patience to suffer the Suffragettes gladly!
But never despairing, each mind, greatly daring,
Fresh programmes preparing, fresh projects revolves;
New plans undertaking, new promises making,
New plots, new designs, new resolves!
With hopes unabated, and spirits elated,
We feel ourselves fated, this year, to succeed,
Devising and dreaming, suggesting and scheming
To triumph, to conquer, to lead!
With hearts that are wiser (though probably sadder),
We start once again at the foot of the ladder!

FEBRUARY

['Really, there must be something rather fine in the English character that enables it to triumph over the English climate.'—The Pall Mall Gazette.]

I gaze each morning through my rainswept casement,
Into the murky, mud-bound street below;
I grimly note the slush that floods the basement,
The hail, the sleet—and oh!
I feel that I am greater than I know!
Only a demigod could thrive
'Mid such surroundings drear;
Only a hero could survive
In such an atmosphere!
Each day the sullen sky becomes more leaden,
The weather grows less suited to a dog;
Each night damp mists arise, to chill and deaden!
(The golf-course is a bog:
Twice has my ball been stymied by a frog!)
Still sweetly in my bosom wakes
The knowledge nought can mar,
That 'tis our island climate makes
Us Britons what we are!
For if we basked in fragrant, warm oases,
We should not wear that air of self-control
Which, round about our placid British faces,
Shines like an aureole,
Expressing true stolidity of soul.
To chill and gloom, to frost and thaw,
Our country owes to-day
The dogged jaw of Bonar Law,
The eye of Edward Grey!
O Mother England, wettest of wet nurses,
Where would a poet be without your clime,
Which gives him such a subject for his verses,
Supplying (ev'ry time)
A reason for his undistinguished rhyme?
His lesson may be sharp and stern,
His anguish keen and long;
But so in sniffing he may learn
What he expounds in song!

SPRING

When the hand of ev'ry Briton, 'spite of glove or woolly mitten,
By the frost severely bitten, grows as frigid as a stone,
When he scuttles like a lizard through the bitter biting blizzard,
Which benumbs his very gizzard and which chills him to the bone;
When the constable stands scowling, where the hurricane is howling,
Or goes miserably prowling, with no shelter from the storm,
And the working-man, half-fuddled, jug to bosom closely cuddled,
In each public-house is huddled, in his efforts to get warm;
Then the poet (known as 'minor') deems it suitable to sing
That there's nothing much diviner than the pleasures of the Spring!
When the maiden, matinéeing, from some playhouse portals straying
(Where her favourite is playing), grows as crusty as a crab,
While her fiancé ungainly—so unlike dear Harry Ainley!—
In the snow is seeking vainly (ah! how vainly!) for a cab;
When he cusses and she fusses, as they note how full each 'bus is
Of that crowd of oafs and hussies it refuses to disgorge,
Till they hail some passing taxi, with expressions wild and waxy
(Like the language Leo Maxse always uses of Lloyd George)!
With her windswept skirt she battles, to his hat he tries to cling,
While the poet sweetly prattles of the pleasures of the Spring!
Though I hate to be pedantic, and it may seem unromantic,
I am driven nearly frantic when I hear the praises sung
Of those ruthless vernal breezes which engender coughs and sneezes
And disseminate diseases in the ranks of old and young.
So, although it sounds like treason, when I celebrate this season,
I will mix my rhymes with reason, and substantiate, I trust,
That there's nought so uninviting, so depressing, and so blighting,
As the time of which I'm writing with such genuine disgust.
As I hover round the fender, and for fuel loudly ring,
I decline to see the splendour or the witchery of Spring!