Postscript.
Permit me—if you do not mind—
To add it would be screaming fun
If, after printing this, I find
Them after all at 81.
Or 70 or 63,
Or 55 or 44,
Or 39 and going free,
Or 28—or even more.
No matter—take no more advice
From doubtful and intriguing men.
Refuse the stuff at any price,
And slowly watch them fall to 10.
Meanwhile I feel a certain zest
In writing once again the new
Refrain that all is for the best,
And Consols are at 82.
Last Envoi.
Prince, you and I were barely thirty-three,
And now I muse and wonder if it’s true,
That you were you and I myself was me,
And 3 per cents were really 82!
BALLADE OF THE UNANSWERED QUESTION
I
What dwelling hath Sir Harland Pott
That died of drinking in Bungay?
Nathaniel Goacher who was shot
Towards the end of Malplaquet?
The only thing that we can say,
(The only thing that has been said)
About these gentlemen is, “Nay!
But where are the unanswering dead”