To My Godson

(Aged six weeks.)

Small bundle, enveloped in laces, For whom I stood sponsor last week, When you slept, with the pinkest of faces, And never emitted a squeak; Though vain is the task of illuming The Future’s inscrutable scroll, I cannot refrain from assuming A semi-prophetical rôle.

I predict that in paths Montessorian Your infantile steps will be led, And with modes which are Phrygian and Dorian Your musical appetite fed; You’ll be taught how to dance by a Russian, “Eurhythmics” you’ll learn from a Swiss, How not to behave like a Prussian— No teaching is needed for this!

Will you learn Esperanto at Eton? Or, if Eton by then is suppressed, Be sent to grow apples or wheat on A ranche in the ultimate West? Will you aim at a modern diploma In civics or commerce or stinks? Inhale the Wisconsin aroma Or think as the humanist thinks?

Will you learn to play tennis from COVEY Or model your stroke on JAY GOULD? Will you play the piano like TOVEY Or by gramophone records be schooled? Will you golf, or will golfing be banished To answer the needs of the plough, And links from the landscape have vanished To pasture the sheep and the cow?

Your taste in the region of letters I only can dimly foresee, But guess that from metrical fetters The verse you’ll affect must be free; And I shan’t be surprised or astounded If your generation rebels Against adulation unbounded Of SHAW and of BENNETT and WELLS.

Upholding ancestral tradition Your uncle has booked you at Lord’s, But I doubt if you’ll sate your ambition Athletic on well-levelled swards; No, I rather opine that you’ll follow The lead that we owe to the WRIGHTS, And soar like the eagle or swallow On far and adventurous flights.

But no matter—in joy and affliction, In seasons of failure or fame, I cherish the certain conviction You’ll never dishonour your name; For the love of the mother that bore you, The life and the death of your sire Will shine as a lantern before you, To guide and exalt and inspire.