Outlook Odes

by T. W. H. Crosland

TO MR. PIERPONT MORGAN

Dear Mr. Pierpont Morgan,—
I hasten to give you a hearty British welcome.
Come to my arms;
I am in the Trust line myself—
That is to say, I used to be
Before people started putting up announcements
To the effect that
"Poor Trust is dead,
Bad pay killed him."
Some day, an I mistake not, Mr. Morgan,
Your Trust will die:
All Trusts are grass.
Ponder it!
I am a political economist, and I know.
Meanwhile I am very pleased to think
That we have amongst us a man of your financial prowess
And purchasing power.
There is a certain class of British person
Who apparently goes in bodily fear of you.
That class of person has groaned loudly over your steel exploit,
And he has groaned loudlier still
Over your purchase of the Leyland Line of Steamships.
To groan over a fair deal of any kind
Appears to me, my dear Mr. Pierpont Morgan,
To be an entirely stupid proceeding.
Nobody can come to grief by selling things,
Providing they sell them at the right price.
You have bought the Leyland Line of Steamships:
I see no reason why you should not buy all the other lines
If you want them, and have the wherewithal to pay for them,
For in the long run everything comes to him who vends.
You buy my steamships, or my steelworks,
Or, for that matter, my caller herrin':
I take your money, I put it in your bank,
And live sumptuously on the interest.
You have all the trouble
Inasmuch as you have to rake up the interest.
I sit at home and enjoy myself,
You scheme, and scheme, and scheme, and scheme, and scheme, and scheme, and scheme,
I am happy,
I hope you are.
Between ourselves I should not tremble
If you bought up Great Britain and Ireland (especially Ireland),
And all that in them is,
Providing always, as I have said before,
That you paid the price.
Indeed, I hope to live to see the day
When Englishmen will cease to toil and spin,
And derive their incomes
Wholly and solely from American dividends.
Fools buy things, my dear Mr. Pierpont Morgan,
Wise men sell them.
That is particularly true
When the article involved happens to be poetry.
Nevertheless, as you appear to be in a buying frame of mind,
I take this opportunity of informing you
That I have at my villa at Hindhead
A large and varied stock
Of sonnets, odes, rhymes, jingles, and what not,
Which I am prepared to sell at an enormous sacrifice.
My price to you for the lot would be
Fifteen Million Dollars.
If you care to deal, I undertake to melt your cheque
At your own bank,
And to invest the proceeds in any concerns
In which you happen to be interested,
So that you would not only get the poetry,
But also your money back again.
This, at any rate, is how it seems to me.
Vale!

TO PRINCE EDWARD OF YORK

(On the Return of the "Ophir")

Most well-behaved little Prince,—
As the small boy
Who will one day be the Sovereign Lord
Of certain other small boys
In whom I am interested
I hasten to assure you
Of my loyalty to the Imperial House
Of which you are the joy and hope,
And of my respect for your own podgy little person.
To-day, I need scarcely tell you, my dear little Prince,
Is a very big day for you,
Inasmuch as
To-day your excellent parents—
Their Royal Highnesses
The Duke and Duchess of Cornwall and York, KG.—
Return from their wanderings,
Laden, I am given to understand,
With presents for his Royal Highness
Prince Edward of York,
Who, I am given to understand,
Has been a very good boy
During these long weeks of separation.
I am quite sure
That you deserve these presents,
And that your Grandmama
Will be able to give your parents a very good account of you,
And that your Grandpapa,
With that tact which is only one of many of his excellent qualities,
Will refrain from making reports
Which might lead to parental chastisement,
I remember quite well
That when my own Mama and Papa
Returned once from a little jaunt
They brought back with them,
As a present for me,
A tin cylinder with a spike to it,
Which you set on a piece of wood
And spun round;
Then you looked through some holes in the tin cylinder
And beheld many wonderful things,
Such as a little girl skipping,
And jockeys riding a steeplechase on tigers.
If your Papa, my dear little Prince,
Has not brought you one of those,
Be sure you ask for it.
It is not rude to ask for what you do not see in the window,
Providing you say "Please."
And now before I go
Let me add a few words
Of kindly admonition.
I hope you will grow up to be a good and great man,
And that you will never give your parents
Cause for sorrow,
By turning Socialist,
Or newspaper editor,
Or attempting to imitate these Odes.
To your infant mind
This last crime
May appear to be the most innocent in the world,
Because these odes
(God wot)
Are so easy to imitate;
Diplomats, Members of Parliament, publishers' assistants,
Cabmen, poets, peers of the realm,
Nay, even the very crowned heads of Europe,
Have, at time and time,
Been consumed with a desire to do them for me;
Because, as I have said,
It is so easy.
Well, my dear little Prince,
Let us draw our moral.
The easy thing is not always the wisest thing.
I feel that in my inmost heart.
And if you blossom into manhood
With the same conviction,
More or less,
I make no doubt whatever
That you will be an immense success
As a king.
I wish you the best of luck.

TO MME. BERNHARDT

My dear Madame Bernhardt,—
I have been very nigh addressing this ode
To the winner of the Derby.
But, on second thoughts, I said,
"No, no—never!"
(Non, non, jamais, in fact.)
"Not while we have in our midst
One of whom I wot,
For is it meet
That the charming Mme. Bernhardt
Should return to her interesting country
Possessed of the impression that the bas Anglais
Have a greater feeling for le sport
Than for the arts dramatiques,
Or whatever you call 'em?
Non, non, a thousand times, non!"
Ah, Madame, believe me,
I love my country—
La patrie, la patrie, la patrie, you know:
It is a fine country when you understand it,
And I would have my beautiful Bernhardt
Take away with her
Nothing but splendid memories of it.
I was exceedingly glad
To read in the papers the other morning
That in the opinion of the critics dramatiques Anglais,
Or whatever you call 'em,
Madame had done herself proud
At the Lyceum Theatre the other evening.
One critic dramatique Anglais,
Or whatever you call him,
Wrote of Madame thus:
"Such passages,
Wherein the eaglet is borne away
On a flight of adoration for the dead eagle,
Recur throughout the play:
They are, in fact, its keynote,
And Mme. Bernhardt
Declaimed them with superb intensity.
The famous voice has lost its golden notes,
But its power to thrill remains,
She runs the gamut of the emotions
With all the grace and dexterity
Of
A
PROFESSOR."
Madame Bernhardt,
You will perceive
That the critics dramatiques Anglais,
Or whatever you call 'em,
Write of nobody
That they do not adorn;
My beautiful B.,
You are a made woman,
You have all the grace and dexterity
Of
A
PROFESSOR.
O happiness!
O crown and fulfilment of a life-time devoted to Ar-rt!
Your cup, my quenchless one,
Is at length heaped up,
Like Benjamin's,
And it runs over!
Heaven bless us all!
And in conclusion, my dear Mme. Bernhardt,
Will you do me the honour to allow me to explain
That in the event of any young enthusiast from Paris
Calling round at any of our newspaper offices
With a view to getting satisfaction
From the person who accuses you
Of having all the skill and dexterity
Of
A
PROFESSOR,
He (the young enthusiast from Paris)
Will do himself no good,
Because in my dear country, dear Madame Bernhardt,
We do not fight the duel à la cut finger,
Like gentlemen;
We merely throw downstairs.