SPRING-CLEANING

['The only way to get workmen out of the house is to move in oneself.'—The Bromide's Handbook.]

Let me sing in mournful numbers
Of the sorrows of the Spring,
When the house is full of plumbers
And the builder has his fling!
Ladders lean on ev'ry landing,
Pails repose on ev'ry stair,
Painters, who on planks are standing,
Block the road to ev'rywhere,
And with pigments evil-smelling
Drive us from our dismal dwelling.
Stairs are carpetless to step on,
Bannisters are far from dry,
While (like Damocles's weapon)
Plaster threatens from on high.
Any room we chance to enter
Our depression but completes:
Chairs and tables in the centre
Hide beneath encircling sheets,
And the painters (horrid vandals!)
Have deprived the doors of handles.
Workmen through our windows peering
Spread their pitfalls in our path;
Daily we are found adhering
To some freshly-painted bath;
Daily have our cooks contended
That, however great our grief,
Till the kitchen-range be mended,
We must live on frigid beef;
And at last we grasp the meaning
Of that fatal phrase, 'Spring-Cleaning'!

'ROYAL ASCOT'

Ho! find me my faithful field-glasses
(The kind with collapsible joints);
Ho! bring me my bundle of passes,
My pencils (the ones that have points);
Ho! give me my 'topper,'
The head-dress that's proper
For meetings where Royalties muster;
Put scent on my 'hanky'
(That's quite enough, thankye!)
And polish my boots with a duster;
That so I may venture, with grace and composure,
To mix with my peers in the Royal Enclosure!
At Ascot, where beautiful dresses
Enrapture the masculine gaze,
How oft I've indulged in excesses
Of hock-cup and cold mayonnaise!
How oft in the Paddock
(Though squashed like a haddock)
Each thoroughbred's heels I've eluded!
What fortunes I've flung to
The Ring, which they've clung to,
Those touts who my pockets denuded!
What niggardly odds did those bookmakers lay me!
(How often have ladies forgotten to pay me!)
At Ascot, that popular function,
Society leans on the rails,
And sport is enjoyed in conjunction
With lobsters and underdone quails!
While Rank and while Fashion
Regard with compassion
The antics of clown or of nigger,
But one imperfection
Appears, on inspection,
This party to mar or disfigure:
'Twould be the most perfect of meetings and courses,
If only——if only there weren't any horses!

'ROSES'

A MEMORY OF 'ALEXANDRA DAY'

(With apologies to Wordsworth)

I wandered shyly as a ghost
That prowls in haunted keeps and tow'rs,
When all at once I saw a host,
A crowd of ladies selling flow'rs;
Along the Mall, beside the Pond,
From Lady Cr-we to Lady M-nd!
Continuous as the stars that shine,
Like poppies in a field of wheat,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the kerb of ev'ry street;
Ten thousand saw I, file by file,
Selling their 'blooms' with sprightly smile.
The world about them smiled, for they
Bedecked the dingy thoroughfares;
A fellow could not fail to pay
His penny for such wares as theirs.
I bought and bought—but little guessed
What wealth those simple flowers expressed.
For all the cash they helped to net,
In streets where stood their rosy stalls,
Went to reduce that endless debt
Which is the curse of hospitals;
And Chairmen cast dull care away
And danced on Alexandra Day!