The Incubus

Essence of boredom! stupefying Theme! Whereon with eloquence less deep than full, Still maundering on in slow continuous stream, All can expatiate, and all be dull: Bane of the mind and topic of debate That drugs the reader to a restless doze, Thou that with soul-annihilating weight Crushest the Bard, and hypnotisest those Who plod the placid path of plain pedestrian Prose:

Lo! when each morn I carefully peruse (Seeking some subject for my painful pen) The Times, the Standard, and the Daily News, No other topic floats into my ken Save this alone: or Dr. Clifford slates Dogmas in general: or the dreadful ban Of furious Bishops excommunicates Such simple creeds as Birrell, hopeful man! Thinks may perhaps appease th' unwilling Anglican.

Lo! at Society's convivial board (Whereat I do occasionally sit, In hope to bear within my memory stored Some echo thence of someone else's wit), Or e'er the soup hath yielded to the fish, A heavy dulness doth the banquet freeze: Lucullus' self would shun th' untasted dish When lovely woman whispers, "Tell me, please, What are Denominational Facilities?"

From scenes like these my Muse would fain withdraw: To Taff's still Valley be my footsteps led, Where happy Unions 'neath the shield of Law Heave bricks bisected at the Blackleg's head: In those calm shades my desultory oat Of Taxed Land Values shall contented trill, Of Man ennobled by a Single Vote,-- In short, I'll sing of anything you will, Except of thee alone, O Education Bill!

THE WORKING MAN (After seeing his Picture in the Press)

Working Man! whose psychic beauty (Unattainable by me) Still it is my pleasing duty Painted by your friends to see,-- You, whose virtues ne'er can bore us, Daily through their list we scan, Let me swell th' admiring chorus, Let me hymn the Working Man!

You whose Leaders, highly moral, Always shocked by war's alarms, Could not in their country's quarrel Contemplate the use of arms, Yet, should strikes provide occasion, Then by higher promptings led Do with more than moral suasion Break the erring Blackleg's head:--

You, whose intellectual state is Such that you are aiming at Getting all your culture gratis (Not that you're alone in that),-- Always with the strict injunction That whate'er be false or true Every teacher's simple function Is to teach what pleases you:--

Not to gain by learned labour Any sordid quid pro quo: Not to rise above your neighbour (Comrades ne'er are treated so): Not to change your lowly station, Not for rank and not for pelf, Academic education Only, only for itself,--

Yet in whose commercial dealings Vainly we attempt to find Those disinterested feelings Which adorn the Student's mind,-- Seeing that, O my high-souled brothers! There your dream of happiness Is (like mine, and several others') Earning more for working less!

'Tis not that I blame your getting Anything you think you can: 'Tisn't that which I'm regretting, Noble British Working Man! No--although the facts I mention Sometimes wake a mild surprise-- Still--the truth's beyond contention-- You are good, and great, and wise:

Swell my taxes: stint my fuel: Last, to close the painful scene, Send me, rather just than cruel, Send me to the guillotine: Ere the knife bisects my spinal Cord, and ends my vital span, This shall be my utterance final, Bless the British Working Man!