BALLADE OF THE BEST SONG IN THE WORLD
I KNOW a sheaf of splendid songs by heart
Which stir the blood or move the soul to tears,
Of death or honour or of love’s sweet smart,
The runes and legends of a thousand years;
And some of them go plaintively and slow,
And some are jolly like the earth in May—
But this is really the best song I know:
I-tiddly-iddly-i-ti-iddly-ay.
I sang it in a house-boat on the Dart
To several members of the House of Peers.
The Editor of the Exchange and Mart
(A man of taste) stood up and led the cheers.
I carolled it at Christmas in the snow,
I hummed it on my summer holiday—
Doh-ray-me-fah-sol-la-fah-me-ray-doh—
I-tiddly-iddly-i-ti-iddly-ay.
It made a gathering of Fabians start
And put their fingers in their outraged ears.
They did not understand my subtle art,
But though they only gave me scoffs and jeers,
I sang my ditty high, I sang it low,
I sang it every known (and unknown) way—
Crescendo, forte, pianissimo—
I-tiddly-iddly-i-ti-iddly-ay.
L’Envoi
Prince, if by some amazing fluke you go
To heaven, you’ll hear the shawms and citherns play,
And all the trumpets of the angels blow
I-tiddly-iddly-i-ti-iddly-ay.
TAIL-PIECE
A BOY goes by the window while I write,
Whistling—the little demon!—in delight.
I shake my fist and scowl at him, and curse
Over the carcase of my murdered verse.
And yet—which is it that the world most needs,
His happy laughter or my threadbare screeds?
There is more poetry in being young
Than in the finest song that Shakespeare sung—
And if that’s true of godlike Shakespeare—well,
Whistle the Marseillaise, and ring the bell,
And chase the cat, and lose your tennis-ball,
And tear your trousers on the garden wall,
Scalp a Red Indian, sail the Spanish seas—
Do any mortal thing you damn well please.