'There's nobody in my motor now,—
Just a tangled car in the ditch upset;
For the fun of the fair is, all allow,
At the County Court, or, better yet,
By the very foot of the dock, I trow.
. . . . .
'Thus I entered, and thus I go;
In Court the magistrate sternly said,
"Five guineas fine, and the costs you owe!"
I might not question, so promptly paid.
Henceforth I walk; I am safer so.'
THE BALLAD OF THE ARTIST
Archibald Ames is an artist,
And a widely renowned R.A.,
For albeit his pictures are thoroughly bad,
The greatest success he has always had,
And he makes his profession pay.
He has no idea of proportion,
No notion of colour or line,
But perhaps for such there is little need,
Since everybody is fully agreed
That his subjects are quite divine.
His pictures are sweetly simple;
The ingredients all must know,—
Just a fair-haired child and a dog or two,
A very old man, and a baby's shoe,
And some bunches of mistletoe.
In some, an angelic infant
Is helping a kitten to play,
Or dressing a cat in Grandpapa's hat
(Which is equally hard on the hat and the cat),
Or teaching a 'dolly' to pray.
Or else there's a runaway couple,
With a distant view of papa,
An elderly party with rich man's gout,
Who swears himself rapidly inside out,
In a broken-down motor-car.